The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  There were perhaps a score of men in the room when Shorty and the Circle L men burst in. Shorty had come to a halt in the glare of one of the big clusters of lights, and his friends had halted near him.

  The giant made a picture that brought an awed hush over the place. He stood in the glaring light, a gun in each hand, the muscles of his face and neck standing out like whipcords; his legs a-sprawl, his eyes blazing with awful rage as they roved around the room, scanning the faces of every man there. The other Circle L men had drawn their weapons, too. But Shorty dominated. It was upon him that all eyes turned; it was upon his crimson, rage-lined face that every man looked. He was a figure of gigantic proportions—a mighty man in the grip of the blood-lust.

  “You guys stand. Every damned one of you! Don’t move a finger or bat an eyelash! I’ve come a-killin’!” he said in a low, tense voice, the words coming with a snap, jerkily, like the separate and distinct lashes of a whip.

  Not a man in the room moved, nor did their fascinated eyes waver for an instant from Shorty’s face.

  “Where’s Slade?”

  He shot the words at them. He saw their eyes waver for an instant from his and they looked toward the stairs in the rear—the stairs that Ruth Hamlin had seen when for an instant after throwing the door of the room open she had glanced down to see the room full of men, all looking at her.

  The concentrated gazing of the men at the stairs told Shorty what he wanted to know. He spoke to Blackburn, throwing the words back over his shoulder:

  “Hold ’em right where they are—damn ’em!”

  Then with a few gigantic bounds he was at the foot of the stairs. In a few more he had gained the top, where he pressed his huge shoulder against the door. It gave a little—enough to further enrage the giant. He drew back a little and literally hurled himself against it. It burst open, Shorty keeping his feet as the wreck fell away from him. And he saw Slade, with a hand over Ruth’s mouth, standing near the foot of the bed.

  Evidently Slade had been about to release Ruth when he heard the door crashing behind him; for at the instant Shorty emerged from the wreck he saw that the girl’s body was already falling—toward the bed—as Slade drew away from her and reached for his guns.

  They came out—both of them—streaking fire and smoke. But they never came to the deadly level to which Slade sought to throw them; for Shorty’s guns were crashing at Slade’s first movement, and the bullets from the outlaw’s weapons thudded into the board floor, harmlessly, and Slade lurched forward—almost to Shorty’s side—his guns loosening in his hands and falling, one after the other, to the floor. He grinned, with hideous satire, into Shorty’s face as he tried, vainly, to steady himself.

  “Warden—the damned skunk—said Lawler would come—first!” he said, with horrible pauses. He lurched again, still grinning satirically; and slumped to the floor, where he turned slowly over on his back and lay still.

  Shorty glanced at Ruth, who was huddled on the bed; then he wheeled, and leaped for the stairs.

  Before he reached the bottom, Ruth sat up and stared dazedly about. She had heard the crashing of the pistols, though the reports had seemed to come from a great distance—faintly, dully. But when she reeled to her feet and saw Slade lying on the floor, his upturned face ghastly in the feeble light from the oil-lamp, she knew that someone had saved her, and she yielded, momentarily, to a great joy that weakened her so that she had to sit on the edge of the bed to steady herself.

  It was not for long; and presently she got up and swayed to the door at the top of the stairs, holding onto the jamb while she looked downward. When her eyes grew accustomed to the light she paled.

  In the big room were many men. She saw Shorty standing among them—she recognized them as Circle L cowboys. Shorty’s guns were out; in fact the men in the group near Shorty seemed to bristle with weapons.

  At the rear of the room was another group of men. They stood motionless, silent, and had no weapons in their hands. But some of them were crouching, their faces grim and set.

  And then Ruth heard Shorty’s voice—hoarse, raucous with passion:

  “You guys that don’t belong to Slade’s gang, get out! Fan it! You Slade men stand! I know every damned one of you!”

  There was a short silence, during which several men slipped away from the group at the rear of the room and bolted for the rear door. And then, suddenly, as Shorty muttered words that Ruth did not hear, both groups of men leaped into action.

  Ruth saw the men in the group at the rear reach, concertedly, for their weapons; she saw smoke streaks stabbing the heavy atmosphere of the big room; heard the roar and crash of pistols; saw men falling, to land in grotesque positions; saw Shorty, huge and terrible amid the billowing smoke, shoot a man who tried to leap over the bar, so that he fell across it limply, as though sleeping. She observed another man—one of Slade’s—dodge behind a card table, rest his pistol for an instant on its top, and shoot at Shorty. She saw Shorty snap a shot at the man, saw the man’s head wobble as he sank behind the table. And then she was suddenly aware that it was ended. A ghastly silence fell. Through the heavy smoke she saw Shorty, standing where he had stood all along—near the cluster of lights just inside the front door. It seemed to her that the room was full of motionless figures of men, strewing the floor.

  She was sick and weak, but she knew she must get out into the air or she would faint; and so she began to descend the stairs, holding to the slender railing for support.

  She got down without anyone seeing her. No one seemed to pay any attention to her. As she reached a side door—opening into the space from which the outside stairs ran—she looked back, to see Shorty and a number of Circle L men clustered around Blackburn—who was sitting in a chair, looking very white.

  She got out into the open and ran toward the street, hardly knowing what she intended to do. Whatever happened, she did not want to stay longer in the Wolf. She had a feeling that if she could find Moreton she would be safe until Shorty and the Circle L men completed the grim work upon which they were engaged. For she knew that the Circle L men had sworn to square their account with the outlaws—and, knowing the circumstances of the fight on the plains the previous spring, she could not blame them for what they had done.

  And yet she wanted to get away from the scene—anywhere.

  She halted in front of the Wolf, and saw a number of men on the street—and others running toward the building. She moved down the street toward the station, and as she passed a group of men she saw a man running toward her, shouting loudly:

  “Lawler’s here! What in hell is comin’ off? Lawler just got off a special train! He looks like he looked that day he rode into town lookin’ for Gary Warden!”

  Far down the street Ruth saw him coming. He was running, and she leaped to meet him, unaware that Shorty and the other Circle L men had emerged from the front door of the Wolf and were listening to the man who had brought the news of Lawler’s arrival.

  She was aware of nothing but the fact that Lawler was coming. And when, running toward him, she saw him stop dead short, she cried aloud with joy:

  “O Kane! Kane!”

  And then his big arms went around her, and she nestled close to him, shuddering, sobbing, laughing.

  Excitedly, rapidly, as he held her, she related the story of the night’s adventure. Then Shorty and the others came up. She and Lawler were standing in front of a store, in a glare of light that came through a big window; and she saw his lips straighten when she told him what Slade had done.

  “Shorty,” he said, grimly; “take care of her.”

  And then, despite her struggles—for she knew that he was going to seek Warden—she found herself a captive in the giant’s arms, while Lawler ran down the street toward Warden’s office.

  CHAPTER XLII

  GOING EAST

  Within fifteen minutes after he had left Ruth Hamlin with Slade at the side door of the Wolf, Warden had sent a telegram to Lawler, at the capital, informing him t
hat the girl might be found at the brothel with the outlaw. He had signed no name to the telegram, but that did not lessen the venomous satisfaction he felt over sending it.

  It had been nearly eleven o’clock when Warden sent the wire and allowing for some minutes of waste time before the message could be delivered, and the space of time that must elapse before Lawler could reach Willets—even if he came on a special train—he knew that Lawler could not arrive before the early hours of the morning.

  Lawler, Warden knew, would be in a killing mood when he reached Willets. And he knew, also, that Slade would be waiting for Lawler, and that he would kill Lawler on sight.

  Slade would have to kill Lawler, for Lawler, as governor, had the power to be revenged upon the outlaw for the abduction of Ruth; and Slade would know that Lawler would use that power to the limit. If Slade killed Lawler, that would be another matter. The outlaw would have to hide, to evade the clutches of the law. But hiding was not more than Slade had been accustomed to for years, and that necessity would work no hardship upon him.

  That was Warden’s reasoning. Perhaps it was faulty, for it hinged upon the vagaries of a wanton character who could not be depended upon. But Warden had to take that chance.

  And Warden’s reasoning, of late, had been influenced by his passionate hatred of Lawler. That hatred had warped his judgment until he had become a creature guided by the savage impulses that filled his brain.

  When he left Slade and Ruth at the door of the Wolf, he went directly to his office, taking Singleton with him. He lit a kerosene lamp, built a fire in the small stove that stood in a corner; seated himself in a chair, motioned Singleton to another, lit a cigar and smoked—his eyes gleaming with the vindictive joy he felt.

  However, the cigar in his mouth was not half smoked, when from a distance, on the steady west wind, was borne to his ears the faint, wailing shriek of a locomotive whistle.

  The cigar drooped from his lips and he looked swiftly at Singleton. Singleton had heard the sound, too, for his eyes had narrowed and his attitude had become tense.

  That both men had the same thought was evidenced by the glance they exchanged—incipient apprehension.

  “It’s a freight, likely,” muttered Singleton.

  Warden took a nervous puff at his cigar. Then he got up, walked to a window and stood, looking out into the night. He stood there for a few minutes, Singleton watching him—until the whistle shrieked again and a muffled roar reached their ears. Then Warden turned, his face ashen.

  “Singleton, it’s a special!” he said, jerkily; “an engine and one car!”

  Singleton got up and walked to the window, beside Warden. As they stood there, they saw the train stop at the station. They saw, in the dim light from the coach, the figure of a tall man alight and dart across the platform, to vanish in the shadow of the station. Simultaneously, there came to their ears the staccato reports of pistols, the sounds rendered faint and muffled by distance.

  Singleton flashed around, his face pale and his eyes bulging.

  “It’s Lawler! I’d know him among a million! An’ somethin’s happened at the Wolf. That’s where the shootin’ is! Warden,” he said, nervously; “it looks like there’s goin’ to be hell to pay!”

  Warden’s face was ashen, but he laughed.

  “Don’t worry, Singleton; Slade will take care of Lawler,” he said. But the words carried no conviction with them—they had been uttered without expression.

  Warden walked to the door and gazed down the dimly lighted stairway. There was suppressed excitement in his manner, nervous anxiety in his eyes. He walked back into the room, threw his cigar into a cuspidor, and stood with his back to the stove, listening.

  Singleton said nothing; though his lips had settled into a pout and his eyes had a sullen, malignant expression. He, too, was wishing—what Warden was wishing—that Slade would kill Lawler. The death of Lawler would make the future safe for both of them; it would remove a menace to their lives and a barrier to their schemes for the autocratic control of the cattle industry.

  But they doubted. Deep in their hearts lurked a fear that something had gone wrong—which thought was suggested by the sounds of the shooting they had heard.

  Singleton had become afflicted with the nervousness that had seized Warden. The pout on his lips grew; he cast startled, inquiring glances toward the door. And at last, as they stood silent, looking at each other, there came a sound—close; the sound of a man walking in the street. As they listened the sound came closer, reached the front of the building. Then they heard it on the stairs. Warden stiffened, and Singleton drew his gun. An instant later the door crashed inward, and Lawler stood in the opening, his eyes flaming with the cold wrath that had been in them on the day when, after he had killed Antrim, he had come to Warden’s office for a like purpose.

  There was no word spoken. Lawler saw the gun in Singleton’s hand. He leaped quickly to one side as Singleton pulled the trigger—the smoke streak touching his clothing as he moved. He leaped again as Singleton shot at him a second time. This time he was so close to Singleton that the powder burned his face. And before Singleton could shoot again Lawler struck—with the precision and force that he had put into his blows that day in the schoolhouse.

  Singleton reeled headlong across the room, bringing up against the farther wall, striking it with his head and tumbling to the floor beside it.

  Then, his lips set stiffly, his eyes flaming with a fire that brought terror into Warden’s heart, he faced the other.

  “Now, damn you; I’ll teach you to make war on women!” He leaped forward, striking at Warden with terrific energy.

  * * * *

  Still struggling in Shorty’s arms, Ruth heard Singleton’s shots. She broke away from Shorty, noting with dull astonishment that Shorty seemed almost to have permitted it, and ran down the street toward Warden’s office. As she ran she heard a tumult behind her, and steps close beside her. She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, to see Shorty beside her. The giant was taking steps that dwarfed hers, and while she looked at him he drew past her. She heard him muttering as he passed—caught his words:

  “Lawler ain’t got no gun—I seen that!”

  She ran faster than ever at that, and when Shorty reached the foot of the stairs leading to Warden’s office she was at his heels.

  There were other men behind her—a multitude. She felt them pressing close behind her as she ran up the stairs. But she did not look back, for she heard sounds of a conflict in Warden’s office—the thud and jar of blows, the crashing of furniture overturned and smashed; the scuffling of feet on the floors—and screams of rage—in Warden’s voice.

  When she reached the top of the stairs and looked into the room between Shorty’s shoulder and the door jamb, she screamed with apprehension. For she saw Singleton, with blood dripping from a huge gash in his cheek, in the act of picking up a pistol that, evidently, had fallen on the floor during the fight that must have raged in the room.

  Singleton’s face was hideous with rage. It was evident that he did not see Shorty and herself at the door—and that he had not heard the tramping of the many feet on the stairs. He was apparently oblivious to everything but the fact that the pistol was there and that he had an opportunity to use it.

  Ruth saw Warden and Lawler fighting in a corner. Warden’s back was against the wall, near the stove. He was facing the door. His lips were lacerated, drooling blood, his eyes were puffed and blackened, and he was screaming and cursing insanely.

  As Ruth watched, her gaze taking in the wreck of the room—and Singleton picking up the pistol—she saw Lawler strike Warden—a full sweeping blow that sent forth a sodden deadening sound as it landed.

  Warden sagged, his eyes closing as he slid to the floor and sat in the corner his legs doubled under him, his chin on his chest.

  The scene had held only for an instant—merely while Ruth screamed. The sound had hardly died away when Singleton succeeded in grasping the pistol. Ruth tried to squeeze p
ast Shorty, to prevent the tragedy that seemed imminent. But Shorty’s quick, flashing motion checked her—made interference by her unnecessary. There was a flash at Shorty’s side, and the crash of his pistol rocked the air in the room and the hallway. Singleton straightened, turned slowly, looked full at Shorty. Then without uttering a sound he pitched forward, almost at Lawler’s feet.

  The roar of the pistol brought Lawler around so that he faced the door. He saw Shorty and Ruth and the others behind them, but gave no sign. His rage had left him; he seemed coldly deliberate. The only sign of passion about him was in his eyes. They were narrowed, and pin points of fire appeared to flame in them. As though there were no witnesses to what he was doing, he stooped, lifted Warden and threw him over his shoulder. The crowd gave way before him as he started for the stairs—even Ruth and Shorty stepping aside to let him pass. They watched him wonderingly as he carried his burden down the stairs and out into the street. And then as he walked they followed him.

  He went straight across the street, past some low buildings, and over a vacant stretch between the buildings and the station. The crowd followed him—Ruth and Shorty closely, silently watching.

  The special train in which he had come was still standing beside the station platform, the engine panting as though from its long run eastward. Ruth noted that the train crew was on the platform near the engine, interestedly watching the approach of Lawler carrying his burden.

  Lawler walked to the rear end of the coach and threw Warden bodily upon it. Then he turned and motioned toward the conductor. The latter approached him warily, seeming doubtful of what might be in store for him from a man, who though governor—thus carried the body of a man on his shoulder. But he listened respectfully when he observed the clear sanity of Lawler’s eyes.

  “This man is leaving Willets—immediately!” said Lawler. “He’s going East, to the end of this line—at my expense. When he regains consciousness you will tell him what I have said.”