The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  “Rifle!” said Blackburn, grimly.

  There were still three Circle L men at the line camps on the range; five had been left behind in the valley when the attack had been made; and only twenty others, including Blackburn, were left to cope with the rustlers.

  Blackburn cast a worried glance at them. He had plunged out of the bunkhouse with the other men in time to catch a glimpse of the outlaws as they went by with the herd, and he had roughly estimated their number at fifty. The odds were great, and the advantage lay with the pursued, for they could select ambuscades and take terrible toll from the Circle L men.

  Yet Blackburn was determined. He yelled to the others to take advantage of whatever cover they could find; and he saw them slide from their horses, one after another, and throw themselves into a shallow depression that ran erratically north and south for some distance over the plains. Before they reached the depression, however, there had come more white puffs of smoke from the space ahead of them, and Blackburn saw two Circle L men slide from their horses with a finality that brought a savage glare into his eyes.

  “Shorty,” he said, hoarsely, to the big man at his side—who had wriggled behind a rock at the crest of the depression and was coldly and deliberately using the rifle he had taken from the holster on his saddle; “we’ve got to have help—them scum outnumber us. You’ve got the fastest horse an’ you’re the best rider in the bunch. An’ you’ve got the most sense. Barthman’s ranch is the nearest, an’ he’s got fifteen men. You hit the breeze over there an’ tell him what’s happened. Tell him we’re whipped if he don’t help us. An’ tell him to send a rider to Corts, an’ Littlefield, an’ Sigmund, an’ Lester, an’ Caldwell. Tell ’em to take that trail leadin’ to Kinney’s cañon—this side. That’s where they’re headin’ the cattle to. They’ll come a-rushin’, for they like the boss.

  “There’s forty men in that gang that’s hidin’ ahead of us, tryin’ to wipe us out. But if they was a hundred we could keep ’em from makin’ any time, an’ if you’ll burn the breeze some, you can have Barthman an’ the others at the trail near Kinney’s cañon before these guys get there!”

  “Hell’s fire, Blackburn,” protested Shorty; “ain’t there somebody else can ride a damned horse? I’m aimin’ to salivate some of them skunks!”

  “Orders is orders, Shorty,” growled Blackburn, coldly. “You’re goin’, an’ you’re goin’ right this minute—or I’m goin’ to bust you in the eye!”

  “Well, if you put it that way,” grimly grinned Shorty.

  He crawled out of the depression, threw himself upon his horse and raced southeastward, yelling, and waving his hat defiantly at the outlaws, who were shooting at him. But the speed of Shorty’s horse was too great for accurate shooting; and Shorty kept going—waving his hat for a time, and then, when out of range, riding hard—seeming to glide like a shadow into the yawning gulf of distance.

  The depression into which Blackburn and his men had crept was not more than three or four feet deep, with long, sloping sides which were covered with alkali and rotted rock. Along the edges grew greasewood and mesquite bushes, which afforded concealment but not protection. The shallow was wide enough for the horses, though the men were forced to throw the animals and stake their heads down, so that they would not show themselves above the edge of the depression and thus become targets for the outlaws.

  The firing during the night was intermittent. Once the outlaws made an attempt to withdraw, rushing concertedly toward their horses, which they had concealed in a sand draw slightly behind them, southward. But Blackburn and his men were alert.

  The outlaws had chosen a gully for their ambuscade, but they had made the mistake of leaving their horses too far away from their place of concealment. And when they rushed across the stretch of level that extended from the gully to the draw, half a dozen of them dropped before they had traveled a quarter of the distance. The others plunged back into the gully, while the Circle L men yelled exultantly.

  As Blackburn had told Shorty, he did not expect to rout or capture the outlaws; the best he could hope for was that Shorty would get help in time to head off the cattle before the other outlaws drove them into Kinney’s cañon or that he would bring help to the Circle L men in time to prevent the sanguinary fight which would certainly occur as soon as the day dawned.

  And so Blackburn waited, grimly watchful; though worry began to wrinkle his face as he noted that the semi-gloom of the starlit night was lifting, and that a gray streak on the eastern horizon was slowly broadening.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  ANTRIM STRIKES

  From the doorway of the cabin on the Rabbit Ear, Antrim had watched Slade and his men ride away. His gaze followed them until they vanished over the edge of the big plain above the river valley. Then, smiling crookedly, he turned back into the cabin.

  Two men—one of them the tall man who had ridden away to return with the news that Lawler and the sheriff were riding northward—were draped on chairs watching the outlaw chief. They were expectant, eager; there was covert satisfaction in their eyes.

  Like Selden, the other man wore two guns. There was about both men an atmosphere that suggested stealth and violence. It lurked over them, hinting of something sinister and deadly.

  Selden wore a mustache that drooped at the corners of his mouth. It was the color of old straw—a faded, washed-out blonde, darkened here and there from tobacco stains. His mouth was large, the lower lip sagging in the center, giving it a satiric appearance, increased by the bleared, narrowed eyes that always seemed to be glowing with a questioning, leering light.

  Krell, the other man, was smooth of face, with a strong, bold, thrusting jaw and thick, pouting lips. His eyes were big, but they had a disquieting habit of incessant watchfulness—a crafty alertness, as though their owner was suspicious of the motives of those at whom he looked.

  Selden and Krell had been recruited from the southern border, they represented an element that the ranger service was slowly and surely eliminating—and driving northward into states whose laws were less stringent for the evil-doer—the professional gunmen who took life for the malicious thrill it gave them.

  Krell and Selden were “killers.” They were Antrim’s constant companions, except when the necessities of his trade drove the outlaw to work alone. They knew his whims and understood his methods.

  Now, as Antrim paused near the table and looked at them, Krell smiled evilly.

  “I reckon we’ll be settin’ here twirlin’ our thumbs till the outfit gits back?” he suggested.

  Antrim laughed.

  “We’re trailin’ the outfit right now,” he told the other.

  Antrim extinguished the light, and the three went out and mounted their horses. Their movements were deliberate, unhurried. They crossed the river, gaining the plains above it, and rode at a slow lope in the direction taken by the others who had preceded them.

  They talked as they rode, lowly, earnestly—planning the night’s work, speculating upon the probable outcome of the raid upon the Circle L by the men under Slade.

  When they reached the edge of the big valley and concealed themselves in the fringing brush, they saw that Slade and his men had already struck. Streaks of flame were splitting the darkness in the basin; there were reports of pistols—which were reduced to mere faint, popping noises by the distance they traveled before reaching the ears of Antrim and his men; they saw the herd start; heard it go thundering up the valley in a cloud of dust and strike the edge of the plain above, to swing eastward toward Kinney’s cañon.

  “Slade’s sure workin’ hard for that promotion,” observed Antrim, mockingly. “He’s got ’em runnin’ fast an’ under control.”

  The three men did not emerge from their concealment for some time. They watched until the herd grew small in the distance eastward; they noted the confusion that seemed to reign in the vicinity of the bunkhouse, where the Circle L men were frenziedly preparing to pursue the rustlers; they laughed at the figures that were
darting here and there in the light from the open doorway of the bunkhouse; and Antrim sneered when he saw the ranchhouse door open and noted the form of a man framed in the square of light that shone out.

  “That’ll be Blackburn, I reckon,” he said to the other two; “inquirin’ for Lawler, mebbe. Well, Blackburn an’ his guys will have to get along without Lawler.”

  He watched until he saw the Circle L men sweep up the valley, following the direction taken by the herd. He waited until he saw a woman emerge from the door of the ranchhouse. The woman was carrying a lantern, and its fitful, bobbing glare marked the woman’s progress as she moved toward the bunkhouse—in which a light still burned. For an instant the light from the lantern disappeared, and then they saw it again as it bobbed toward the open where the herd had been when the rustlers had struck. Several times Antrim observed that the lantern became stationary—as though it had been placed upon the ground. He grinned coldly as he spoke to Krell and Selden.

  “That’s Lawler’s mother, I reckon. She’s huntin’ for them boys that was foolish enough to try an’ stop Slade. Looks like she’s findin’ ’em, too!”

  Antrim watched until the light began to bob as its bearer went toward the ranchhouse. He saw the door of the ranchhouse open and the woman enter. Then he spoke shortly to the others and they rode down into the valley. After they reached the floor of the valley Antrim spoke again, shortly:

  “Get busy; an’ keep back out of the light when you get ’em goin’. Meet me back there where we was waitin’!”

  Antrim urged his horse toward the ranchhouse, riding slowly. When he reached the big porch he dismounted, and an instant later was pounding heavily upon the front door.

  It was opened after an instant, and Mrs. Lawler appeared, pale, anxious.

  “Oh!” she said, startled, when she saw Antrim’s face in the glare of light from within; “I thought you were one of the Circle L men!” She shrank back a little when Antrim grinned evilly at her, catching her breath with a gasp.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  Antrim crossed the threshold and stood inside, where the light was full upon his face. Repelled—almost terrorized by what she saw in his eyes, Mrs. Lawler attempted to retreat from him; but in an instant he had seized her arms, roughly and brutally crushing them against her sides, while he shoved her back against the open door; holding her in that position and grinning hideously at her helplessness.

  “You know me?” he sneered, his face close to hers. “I’m Antrim!” He laughed when she caught her breath; when he noted that she recognized the name.

  “I reckoned you’d know me, when I told you,” he said. “Luke Lawler knowed me—an’ your son knows me! I’ve never had no love for the Lawler breed, an’ I ain’t changed any. But there’s a lot of things that I’m squarin’ up for!

  “This is my night; I’ve been waitin’ for it!” he gloated. “I’m cleanin’ up on the Lawlers! I’m wipin’ Kane Lawler out—cattle, buildings—an’ him too, mebbe. It ain’t goin’ to be a thing you ought to see. You’re gettin’ away from here—I don’t give a damn where. An’ you’re goin’ now!”

  Awed by his manner and by the terrible threat in his voice, Mrs. Lawler did not resist the physical strength of the outlaw. Though Antrim’s fingers were gripping her arms until the pain made her long to cry out in agony, she made no sound. Nor—now that she realized what portended—did her gaze waver as it met Antrim’s. Her eyes glowed with contempt as they looked into his—with a proud scorn that brought a crimson flush into Antrim’s cheeks. It had been that spirit that had always enraged Antrim—that had always made him realize his inferiority to her husband, and to the steady-eyed son who had shamed him publicly at Willets. It was a thing that physical violence could not conquer; it revealed a quiet courage that had always disconcerted him.

  “Hell!” he sneered; “you can’t come any of that high an’ mighty stuff on me!”

  He twisted her until she faced the door, and then shoved her before him across the porch and down upon the level on the ranchhouse yard, toward the stable and the corral.

  She did not resist, knowing that physical resistance would be futile.

  He shoved her into the stable, and she stood there, unresisting while he saddled a horse. She could not see him, but she could hear him as he moved about; and presently he spoke shortly to her from a point close by:

  “Here’s a cayuse—saddled an’ bridled. You want to get on him here, or outside?”

  “Outside,” she said, coldly.

  In front of the stable door she mounted, Antrim helping her despite her scornful protest.

  “Listen,” he said, as he stood for an instant at the horse’s head, dimly outlined. “You’d better go to Hamlin’s—that’s nearest. An’ make arrangements to stay there. I’m burnin’ the Circle L buildin’s. There won’t be a stick standin’ when I get through! When I get through, I’m goin’ back to my place on the Rabbit Ear. My men have all gone with the cattle, an’ I’ll be there alone. You can tell that damned son of yours that! Understand? He’s aimin’ to get even for what I’m doin’ tonight, he’ll find me at my place—alone—waitin’ for him! Now, get goin’.”

  Mrs. Lawler did not answer. She took up the reins and sent the horse forward, past the bunkhouses and the corral and the ranchhouse—through the valley and up the long rise that led to the great plains above.

  It took her a long time to reach the plains, and when she looked back she saw some leaping tongues of flame issuing from the doors of the bunkhouse. Two or three of the other buildings were on fire; and the windows of the ranchhouse were illuminated by a dull red glare. But the woman made no sound that would have betrayed the emotions that tortured her. She turned her back to the burning buildings and rode onward, toward the Hamlin cabin—trying, in this crisis, to live the code she had taught her son; endeavoring to vindicate the precepts that she had dinned into his ears all the days of his life—that courage in adversity is the ultimate triumph of character—the forge in which is fashioned the moral fiber which makes men strong and faithful.

  CHAPTER XXX

  A WOMAN LIES

  Lawler had said little to Sheriff Moreton on the ride to Willets. Nor had he made any comment when, in the Circle L ranchhouse, in the presence of his mother, Moreton had shown him the statement signed by Della Wharton. He had silently passed it back to Moreton; and had walked to Mrs. Lawler—telling her why the sheriff had come; smilingly taking leave of her while Moreton, sweating profusely, turned his back and pretended to be interested in a picture on the wall.

  “I reckon there’s somethin’ about this case that ain’t been brought out yet, Mrs. Lawler,” said Moreton when he was about to depart with his prisoner. “But things has a way of comin’ out, an’ I reckon we’ll get Kane out of this before long.”

  Outside, on their horses, Moreton rode close to Lawler.

  “Kane, I reckon it’s a damn lie about you killin’ Link an’ Givens the way that Wharton woman says you did—in that damned paper—just malicious, without them deservin’ it?”

  “Moreton, I told you my side of the story a couple of months ago. It’s the lady’s word against mine.”

  Moreton muttered much to himself during the ride. He told Lawler how Warden had come to him with the statement—the charge; and of how he had waited until Della Wharton had personally appeared before him to corroborate what she had signed.

  “She don’t want to have her reputation dragged into it,” sneered Moreton. “Well, before it’s over she won’t have no more reputation than a coyote! I’ll make the thing so damned public that she’ll think I’ve hired a brass band to blare it all over the country!”

  Lawler merely smiled. He might have further increased the sheriff’s rage by showing him the signed confession in his pocket—the confession he had secured from Link and Givens—but he preferred to keep silent until he discovered why Della Wharton had brought the charge against him.

  There were two possible motives. O
ne was that Della was still in the grip of the vindictiveness that had characterized her that last day in the cabin—and had charged him with murder merely to be revenged upon him; the other was that she had been influenced to the action by Gary Warden. He intended to keep silent until events explained the motive. And he smiled faintly at Moreton when the sheriff opened the jail doors for him—Moreton saying that he “hated like poison to do it.”

  Two persons had watched Lawler and Moreton ride into town. Warden, standing in the darkened windows of the Wolf Saloon—deserted by its revelers shortly before—saw Moreton and Lawler dismount in front of the jail, which adjoined the sheriff’s office. Warden watched until he saw the two men enter the building—until he saw Moreton come out alone and enter his office. Then Warden smiled and walked to the door of a room in the rear of the saloon, where Singleton and several other men were playing cards. He winked at Singleton, a signal correctly interpreted by the other, whose eyes quickened. And then Warden returned to the front window where, later, he was joined by Singleton; for a long time both of them watched the southern sky, into which had crept a dull red glow, faint, and far away.

  “Antrim didn’t lose any time!” commented Warden, exultantly. “And Della can tell the truth to the sheriff whenever she gets ready!”

  The other watcher was Della Wharton. She had seen the sheriff leave town, to ride southward, and she had divined what his errand meant. And she had sat in a chair near a window for many hours, peering into the darkness for Moreton’s return with his prisoner. And when she saw them coming she smiled as she had smiled when she had entered the room after taking leave of Warden.

  Della knew Warden better than Warden knew himself; and on the night when he had asked her to sign the statement charging Lawler with murder, she was convinced that Warden intended to use the statement. He had told her that he merely intended to hold it as a threat over Lawler’s head, to dissuade him from succeeding politically; and she had permitted Warden to think that she believed him. And when, upon her arrival from the capital, he had told her that it was part of his strategy to secretly present the statement to the sheriff—and that she must appear personally before that official—she had consented, knowing that Warden was insincere.