The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  Several men laughed. The tall man who had revealed interest before now raised a hand, checking further comment.

  “That offer of a hundred to the man who can beat that shootin’ still goes,” he declared. “An’ I’m taking off the condition. The man that tries don’t have to belong to Dry Bottom. No stranger is barred!”

  The stranger’s glance again met the shooter’s. The latter grinned felinely. Then the rider spoke. The crowd gave him its polite attention.

  “I reckon you-all think you’ve seen some shootin’,” he said in a steady, even voice, singularly free from boast. “But I reckon you ain’t seen any real shootin’.” He turned to the tall, grave-faced man. “I ain’t got no hundred,” he said, “but I’m goin’ to show you.”

  He still sat in the saddle. But now with an easy motion he swung down and hitched his pony to the rail.

  CHAPTER II

  THE STRANGER SHOOTS

  The stranger seemed taller on the ground than in the saddle and an admirable breadth of shoulder and slenderness of waist told eloquently of strength. He could not have been over twenty-five or six. Yet certain hard lines about his mouth, the glint of mockery in his eyes, the pronounced forward thrust of the chin, the indefinable force that seemed to radiate from him, told the casual observer that here was a man who must be approached with care.

  But apparently the shooter saw no such signs. In the first glance that had been exchanged between the two men there had been a lack of ordinary cordiality. And now, as the rider slid down from his pony and advanced toward the center of the street, the shooter’s lips curled. Writhing through them came slow-spoken words.

  “You runnin’ sheep, stranger?”

  The rider’s lips smiled, but his eyes were steady and cold. In them shone a flash of cold humor. He stood, quietly contemplating his insulter.

  Smiles appeared on the faces of several of the onlookers. The tall man with the grave face watched with a critical eye. The insult had been deliberate, and many men crouched, plainly expecting a serious outcome. But the stranger made no move toward his guns, and when he answered he might have been talking about the weather, so casual was his tone.

  “I reckon you think you’re a plum man,” he said quietly. “But if you are, you ain’t showed it much—buttin’ in with that there wise observation. An’ there’s some men who think that shootin’ at a man is more excitin’ than shootin’ at a can.”

  There was a grim quality in his voice now. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes cold and alert. The shooter sneered experimentally. Again the audience smiled.

  But the tall man now stepped forward. “You’ve made your play, stranger,” he said quietly. “I reckon it’s up to you to make good.”

  “Correct,” agreed the stranger. “I’m goin’ to show you some real shootin’. You got another can?”

  Some one dived into the Silver Dollar and returned in a flash with another tomato can. This the stranger took, removing the label, as the shooter had done. Then, smiling, he took a position in the center of the street, the can in his right hand.

  He did not draw his weapon as the shooter had done, but stood loosely in his place, his right hand still grasping the can, the left swinging idly by his side. Apparently he did not mean to shoot. Sneers reached the faces of several men in the crowd. The shooter growled, “Fourflush.”

  There was a flash as the can rose twenty feet in the air, propelled by the right hand of the stranger. As the can reached the apex of its climb the stranger’s right hand descended and grasped the butt of the weapon at his right hip. There was a flash as the gun came out; a gasp of astonishment from the watchers. The can was arrested in the first foot of its descent by the shock of the first bullet striking it. It jumped up and out and again began its interrupted fall, only to stop dead still in the air as another bullet struck it. There was an infinitesimal pause, and then twice more the can shivered and jumped. No man in the crowd but could tell that the bullets were striking true.

  The can was still ten feet in the air and well out from the stranger. The latter whipped his weapon to a level, the bullet striking the can and driving it twenty feet from him. Then it dropped. But when it was within five feet of the ground the stranger’s gun spoke again. The can leaped, careened sideways, and fell, shattered, to the street, thirty feet distant from the stranger.

  Several men sprang forward to examine it.

  “Six times!” ejaculated the tall man in an awed tone. “An’ he didn’t pull his gun till he’d throwed the can!”

  He approached the stranger, drawing him confidentially aside. The crowd slowly dispersed, loudly proclaiming the stranger’s ability with the six-shooter. The latter took his honors lightly, the mocking smile again on his face.

  “I’m lookin’ for a man who can shoot,” said the tall man, when the last man of the crowd had disappeared into the saloon.

  The stranger smiled. “I reckon you’ve just seen some shootin’,” he returned.

  The tall man smiled mirthlessly. “You particular about what you shoot at?” he inquired.

  The stranger’s lips straightened coldly. “I used to have that habit,” he returned evenly.

  “Hard luck?” queried the tall man.

  “I’m rollin’ in wealth,” stated the stranger, with an ironic sneer.

  The tall man’s eyes glittered. “Where you from?” he questioned.

  “You c’n have three guesses,” returned the stranger, his eyes narrowing with the mockery that the tall man had seen in them before.

  The tall man adopted a placative tone. “I ain’t wantin’ to butt into your business,” he said. “I was wantin’ to find out if any one around here knowed you.”

  “This town didn’t send any reception committee to meet me, did they?” smiled the stranger.

  “Correct,” said the tall man. He leaned closer. “You willin’ to work your guns for me for a hundred a month?”

  The stranger looked steadily into the tall man’s eyes.

  “You’ve been right handy askin’ questions,” he said. “Mebbe you’ll answer some. What’s your name?”

  “Stafford,” returned the tall man. “I’m managin’ the Two Diamond, over on the Ute.”

  The stranger’s eyelashes flickered slightly. His eyes narrowed quizzically. “What you wantin’ of a gun-man?” he asked.

  “Rustler,” returned the other shortly.

  The stranger smiled. “Figger on shootin’ him?” he questioned.

  Stafford hesitated. “Well, no,” he returned. “That is, not until I’m sure I’ve got the right one.” He seized the stranger’s arm in a confidential grip. “You see,” he explained, “I don’t know just where I’m at. There’s been a rustler workin’ on the herd, an’ I ain’t been able to get close enough to find out who it is. But rustlin’ has got to be stopped. I’ve sent over to Raton to get a man named Ned Ferguson, who’s been workin’ for Sid Tucker, of the Lazy J. Tucker wrote me quite a while back, tellin’ me that this man was plum slick at nosin’ out rustlers. He was to come to the Two Diamond two weeks ago. But he ain’t showed up, an’ I’ve about concluded that he ain’t comin’. An’ so I come over to Dry Bottom to find a man.”

  “You’ve found one,” smiled the stranger.

  Stafford drew out a handful of double eagles and pressed them into the other’s hand. “I’m goin’ over to the Two Diamond now,” he said. “You’d better wait a day or two, so’s no one will get wise. Come right to me, like you was wantin’ a job.”

  He started toward the hitching rail for his pony, hesitated and then walked back.

  “I didn’t get your name,” he smiled.

  The stranger’s eyes glittered humorously. “It’s Ferguson,” he said quietly.

  Stafford’s eyes widened with astonishment. Then his right hand went out and grasped the other’s.

  “Well, now,” he said warmly, “that’s what I call luck.”

  Ferguson smiled. “Mebbe it’s luck,” he returned. “But before I go over
to work for you there’s got to be an understandin’. I c’n shoot some,” he continued, looking steadily at Stafford, “but I ain’t runnin’ around the country shootin’ men without cause. I’m willin’ to try an’ find your rustler for you, but I ain’t shootin’ him—unless he goes to crowdin’ me mighty close.”

  “I’m agreein’ to that,” returned Stafford.

  He turned again, looking back over his shoulder. “You’ll sure be over?” he questioned.

  “I’ll be there the day after to-morrow,” stated Ferguson.

  He turned and went into the Silver Dollar. Stafford mounted his pony and loped rapidly out of town.

  CHAPTER III

  THE CABIN IN THE FLAT

  It was the day appointed by Ferguson for his presence at the Two Diamond ranch, and he was going to keep his word. Three hours out of Dry Bottom he had struck the Ute trail and was loping his pony through a cottonwood that skirted the river. It was an enchanted country through which he rode; a land of vast distances, of white sunlight, blue skies, and clear, pure air. Mountains rose in the distances, their snowcapped peaks showing above the clouds like bald rock spires above the calm level of the sea. Over the mountains swam the sun, its lower rim slowly disappearing behind the peaks, throwing off broad white shafts of light that soon began to dim as vari-colors, rising in a slumberous haze like a gauze veil, mingled with them.

  Ferguson’s gaze wandered from the trail to the red buttes that fringed the river. He knew this world; there was no novelty here for him. He knew the lava beds, looming gray and dead beneath the foothills; he knew the grotesque rock shapes that seemed to hint of a mysterious past. Nature had not altered her face. On the broad levels were the yellow tinted lines that told of the presence of soap-weed, the dark lines that betrayed the mesquite, the saccatone belts that marked the little guillies. Then there were the barrancas, the arid stretches where the sage-brush and the cactus grew. Snaky octilla dotted the space; the crabbed yucca had not lost its ugliness.

  Ferguson looked upon the world with unseeing eyes. He had lived here long and the country had not changed. It would never change. Nothing ever changed here but the people.

  But he himself had not changed. Twenty-seven years in this country was a long time, for here life was not measured by age, but by experience. Looking back over the years he could see that he was living to-day as he had lived last year, as he had lived during the last decade—a hard life, but having its compensations.

  His coming to the Two Diamond ranch was merely another of those incidents that, during the past year, had broken the monotony of range life for him. He had had some success in breaking up a band of cattle thieves which had made existence miserable for Sid Tucker, his employer, and the latter had recommended him to Stafford. The promise of high wages had been attractive, and so he had come. He had not expected to surprise any one. When during his conversation with the tall man in Dry Bottom he had discovered that the latter was the man for whom he was to work he had been surprised himself. But he had not revealed his surprise. Experience and association with men who kept their emotions pretty much to themselves had taught him the value of repression when in the presence of others.

  But alone he allowed his emotions full play. There was no one to see, no one to hear, and the silence and the distances, and the great, swimming blue sky would not tell.

  Stafford’s action in coming to Dry Bottom for a gunfighter had puzzled him not a little. Apparently the Two Diamond manager was intent upon the death of the rustler he had mentioned. He had been searching for a man who could “shoot,” he had said. Ferguson had interpreted this to mean that he desired to employ a gunfighter who would not scruple to kill any man he pointed out, whether innocent or guilty. He had had some experience with unscrupulous ranch managers, and he had admired them very little. Therefore, during the ride today, his lips had curled sarcastically many times.

  Riding through a wide clearing in the cottonwood, he spoke a thought that had troubled him not a little since he had entered Stafford’s employ.

  “Why,” he said, as he rode along, sitting carelessly in the saddle, “he’s wantin’ to make a gunfighter out of me. But I reckon I ain’t goin’ to shoot no man unless I’m pretty sure he’s gunnin’ for me.” His lips curled ironically. “I wonder what the boys of the Lazy J would think if they knowed that a guy was tryin’ to make a gunfighter out of their old straw boss. I reckon they’d think that guy was loco—or a heap mistaken in his man. But I’m seein’ this thing through. I ain’t ridin’ a hundred miles just to take a look at the man who’s hirin’ me. It’ll be a change. An’ when I go back to the Lazy J—”

  It was not the pony’s fault. Neither was it Ferguson’s. The pony was experienced; behind his slant eyes was stored a world of horse-wisdom that had pulled him and his rider through many tight places. And Ferguson had ridden horses all his life; he would not have known what to do without one.

  But the pony stumbled. The cause was a prairie-dog hole, concealed under a clump of matted mesquite. Ferguson lunged forward, caught at the saddle horn, missed it, and pitched head-foremost out of the saddle, turning completely over and alighting upon his feet. He stood erect for an instant, but the momentum had been too great. He went down, and when he tried to rise a twinge of pain in his right ankle brought a grimace to his face. He arose and hopped over to a flat rock, near where his pony now stood grazing as though nothing had happened.

  Drawing off his boot, Ferguson made a rapid examination of the ankle. It was inflamed and painful, but not broken. He believed he could see it swelling. He rubbed it, hoping to assuage the pain. The woolen sock interfered with the rubbing, and he drew it off.

  For a few minutes he worked with the ankle, but to little purpose. He finally became convinced that it was a bad sprain, and he looked up, scowling. The pony turned an inquiring eye upon him, and he grinned, suddenly smitten with the humor of the situation.

  “You ain’t got no call to look so doggoned innocent about it,” he said. “If you’d been tendin’ to your business, you wouldn’t have stepped into no damned gopher hole.”

  The pony moved slowly away, and he looked whimsically after it, remarking: “Mebbe if I’d been tendin’ to my business it wouldn’t have happened, either.” He spoke again to the pony. “I reckon you know that too, Mustard. You’re some wise.”

  The animal was now at some little distance from the rock upon which he was sitting. He arose, hobbling on one foot toward it, carrying the discarded boot in his hand. He thought of riding with the foot bare. At the Two Diamond he was sure to find some sort of liniment which, with the help of a bandage, would materially assist nature in—

  He was passing a filmy mesquite clump—the bare foot swinging wide. There was a warning rattle; a sharp thrust of a flat, brown head.

  Ferguson halted in astonishment, almost knocked off his balance with the suddenness of the attack. He still held the boot, his fingers gripping it tightly. He raised it, with a purely involuntary motion, as though to hurl it at his insidious enemy. But he did not. The arm fell to his side, and his face slowly whitened. He stared dully and uncomprehendingly at the sinuous shape that was slipping noiselessly away through the matted grass.

  Somehow, he had never thought of being bitten by a rattler. He had seen so many of them that he had come to look upon them only as targets at which he might shoot when he thought he needed practice. And now he was bitten. The unreality of the incident surprised him. He looked around at the silent hills, at the sun that swam above the mountain peaks, at the great, vast arc of sky that yawned above him. Hills, sky, and sun seemed also unreal. It was as though he had been suddenly thrust into a land of dreams.

  But presently the danger of the situation burst upon him, and he lived once more in the reality. He looked down at his foot. A livid, pin-point wound showed in the flesh beside the arch. A tiny stream of blood was oozing from it. He forgot the pain of the sprained ankle and stood upon both feet, his body suddenly rigid, his face red with a su
dden, consuming anger, shaking a tense fist at the disappearing rattler.

  “You damned sneak!” he shouted shrilly.

  In the same instant he had drawn one of his heavy guns and swung it over his head. Its crashing report brought a sudden swishing from beneath the grass, and he hopped over closer and sent three more bullets into the threshing brown body. He stood over it for a moment, his teeth showing in a savage snarl.

  “You won’t bite any one else, damn you!” he shouted.

  The impotence of this conduct struck him immediately. He flushed and drooped his head, a grim smile slowly wearing down his expression of panic. Seldom did he allow his emotions to reveal themselves so plainly. But the swiftness of the rattler’s attack, the surprise when he had not been thinking of such a thing, the fact that he was far from help and that his life was in danger—all had a damaging effect upon his self-control. And yet the smile showed that he was still master of himself.

  Very deliberately he returned to the rock upon which he had been sitting, ripping off his coat and tearing away the sleeve of his woollen shirt. Twisting the sleeve into the form of a rude rope, he tied it loosely around his leg, just above the ankle. Then he thrust his knife between the improvised rope and the leg, forming a crude tourniquet. He twisted the knife until tears of pain formed in his eyes. Then he fastened the knife by tucking the haft under the rope. His movements had been very deliberate, but sure, and in a few minutes he hobbled to his pony and swung into the saddle.

  He had seen men who had been bitten by rattlers—had seen them die. And he knew that if he did not get help within half an hour there would be little use of doing anything further. In half an hour the virus would have so great a grip upon him that it would be practically useless to apply any of the antidotes commonly known to the inhabitants of the country.

  Inquiries that he had made at Dry Bottom had resulted in the discovery that the Two Diamond ranch was nearly thirty miles from the town. If he had averaged eight miles an hour he had covered about twenty-four miles of the distance. That would still leave about six. And he could not hope to ride those six miles in time to get any benefit from an antidote.