The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  But the pistol was not raised. The first man’s pistol had appeared just a fraction of a second sooner, and they saw that it was poised, menacing the rustler.

  For an instant the two men were motionless. Ferguson felt the grasp on his arm tighten, and he turned his head to see Miss Radford’s face, pale and drawn; her eyes lifted to his with a slow, dawning horror in them.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “They are going to shoot!” She withdrew her hand from Ferguson’s arm and held it, with the other, to her ears, cringing away from the edge of the cliff. She waited, breathless, for—it seemed to her—the space of several minutes, her head turned from the men, her eyes closed for fear that she might, in the dread of the moment, look toward the plain. She kept telling herself that she would not turn, but presently, in spite of her determination, the suspense was too great, and she turned quickly and fearfully, expecting to see at least one riderless horse. That would have been horrible enough.

  To her surprise both men still kept the positions that they had held when she had turned away. The newcomer’s revolver still menaced the rustler. She looked up into Ferguson’s face, to see a grim smile on it, to see his eyes, chilled and narrowed, fixed steadily upon the two horsemen.

  “Oh!” she said, “is it over?”

  Ferguson heard the question, and smiled mirthlessly without turning his head.

  “I reckon it ain’t over—yet,” he returned. “But I expect it’ll be over pretty soon, if that guy that’s got his gun on the rustler don’t get a move on right quick. That other guy is comin’ around the corner of that break, an’ if he’s the rustler’s friend that man with the gun will get his pretty rapid.” His voice raised a trifle, a slightly anxious note in it.

  “Why don’t the damn fool turn around? He could see that last man now if he did. Now, what do you think of that?” Ferguson’s voice was sharp and tense, and, in spite of herself, Miss Radford’s gaze shifted again to the plains below her. Fascinated, her fear succumbing to the intense interest of the moment, she followed the movements of the trio.

  From around the corner of the break the third man had ridden. He was not over a hundred feet from the man who had caught the rustler and he was walking his horse now. The watchers on the edge of the plateau could see that he had taken in the situation and was stealing upon the captor, who sat in his saddle, his back to the advancing rider.

  Drawing a little closer, the third man stealthily dropped from his pony and crept forward. The significance of this movement dawned upon Miss Radford in a flash, and she again seized Ferguson’s arm, tugging at it fiercely.

  “Why, he’s going to kill that man!” she cried. “Can’t you do something? For mercy’s sake do! Shout, or shoot off your pistol—do something to warn him!”

  Ferguson flashed a swift glance at her, and she saw that his face wore a queer pallor. His expression had grown grimmer, but he smiled—a little sadly, she thought.

  “It ain’t a bit of use tryin’ to do anything,” he returned, his gaze again on the men. “We’re two miles from them men an’ a thousand feet above them. There ain’t any pistol report goin’ to stop what’s goin’ on down there. All we can do is to watch. Mebbe we can recognize one of them. . . . Shucks!”

  The exclamation was called from him by a sudden movement on the part of the captor. The third man must have made a noise, for the captor turned sharply. At the instant he did so the rustler’s pistol flashed in the sunlight.

  The watchers on the plateau did not hear the report at once, and when they did it came to them only faintly—a slight sound which was barely distinguishable. But they saw a sudden spurt of flame and smoke. The captor reeled drunkenly in his saddle, caught blindly at the pommel, and then slid slowly down into the grass of the plains.

  Ferguson drew a deep breath and, turning, looked sharply at Miss Radford. She had covered her face with her hands and was swaying dizzily. He was up from the rock in a flash and was supporting her, leading her away from the edge of the plateau. She went unresisting, her slender figure shuddering spasmodically, her hands still covering her face.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, as the horror of the scene rose in her mind. “The brutes! The brutes!”

  Feeling that if he kept quiet she would recover from the shock of the incident sooner, Ferguson said nothing in reply to her outbreaks as he led her toward the ponies. For a moment after reaching them she leaned against her animal’s shoulder, her face concealed from Ferguson by the pony’s mane. Then he was at her side, speaking firmly.

  “You must get away from here,” he said, “I ought to have got you away before—before that happened.”

  She looked up, showing him a pair of wide, dry eyes, in which there was still a trace of horror. An expression of grave self-accusation shone in his.

  “You were not to blame,” she said dully. “You may have anticipated a meeting of those men, but you could not have foreseen the end. Oh!” She shuddered again. “To think of seeing a man deliberately murdered!”

  “That’s just what it was,” he returned quietly; “just plain murder. They had him between them. He didn’t have a chance. He was bound to get it from one or the other. Looks like they trapped him; run him down there on purpose.” He held her stirrup.

  “I reckon you’ve seen enough, ma’am,” he added. “You’d better hop right on your horse an’ get back to Bear Flat.”

  She shivered and raised her head, looking at him—a flash of fear in her eyes. “You are going down there!” she cried, her eyes dilating.

  He laughed grimly. “I cert’nly am, ma’am,” he returned. “You’d better go right off. I’m ridin’ down there to see how bad that man is hit.”

  She started toward him, protesting. “Why, they will kill you, too!” she declared.

  He laughed again, with a sudden grim humor. “There ain’t any danger,” he returned. “They’ve sloped.”

  Involuntarily she looked down. Far out on the plains, through the break in the ridge of hills, she could see two horsemen racing away.

  “The cowards!” she cried, her voice shaking with anger. “To shoot a man in cold blood and then run!” She looked at Ferguson, her figure stiffening with decision.

  “If you go down there I am going, too!” she declared. “He might need some help,” she added, seeing the objection in his eyes, “and if he does I may be able to give it to him. You know,” she continued, smiling wanly, “I have had some experience with sick people.”

  He said nothing more, but silently assisted her into the saddle and swung into his own. They urged the animals to a rapid pace, she following him eagerly.

  It was a rough trail, leading through many gullies, around miniature hills, into bottoms where huge boulders and treacherous sand barred the way, along the face of dizzy cliffs, and through lava beds where the footing was uncertain and dangerous. But in an hour they were on the plains and riding toward the break in the ridge of hills, where the shooting had been done.

  The man’s pony had moved off a little and was grazing unconcernedly when they arrived. A brown heap in the grass told where the man lay, and presently Ferguson was down beside him, one of his limp wrists between his fingers. He stood up after a moment, to confront Miss Radford, who had fallen behind during the last few minutes of the ride. Ferguson’s face was grave, and there was a light in his eyes that thrilled her for a moment as she looked at him.

  “He ain’t dead, ma’am,” he said as he assisted her down from her pony. “The bullet got him in the shoulder.”

  She caught a queer note in his voice—something approaching appeal. She looked swiftly at him, suspicious. “Do you know him?” she asked.

  “I reckon I do, ma’am,” he returned. “It’s Rope Jones. Once he stood by me when he thought I needed a friend. If there’s any chance I’m goin’ to get him to your cabin—where you can take care of him till he gets over this—if he ever does.”

  She realized now how this tragedy had shocked her. She reeled and the world swam dizzily before he
r. Again she saw Ferguson dart forward, but she steadied herself and smiled reassuringly.

  “It is merely the thought that I must now put my little knowledge to a severe test,” she said. “It rather frightened me. I don’t know whether anything can be done.”

  She succeeded in forcing herself to calmness and gave orders rapidly.

  “Get something under his head,” she commanded. “No, that will be too high,” she added, as she saw Ferguson start to unbuckle the saddle cinch on his pony. “Raise his head only a very little. That round thing that you have fastened to your saddle (the slicker) would do very well. There. Now get some water!”

  She was down beside the wounded man in another instant, cutting away a section of the shirt near the shoulder, with a knife that she had borrowed from Ferguson. The wound had not bled much and was lower than Ferguson had thought. But she gave it what care she could, and when Ferguson arrived with water—from the river, a mile away—she dressed the wound and applied water to Rope’s forehead.

  Soon she saw that her efforts were to be of little avail. Rope lay pitifully slack and unresponsive. At the end of an hour’s work Ferguson bent over her with a question on his lips.

  “Do you reckon he’ll come around, ma’am?”

  She shook her head negatively. “The bullet has lodged somewhere—possibly in the lung,” she returned. “It entered just above the heart, and he has bled much—internally. He may never regain consciousness.”

  Ferguson’s face paled with a sudden anger. “In that case, ma’am, we’ll never know who shot him,” he said slowly. “An’ I’m wantin’ to know that. Couldn’t you fetch him to, ma’am—just long enough so’s I could ask him?”

  She looked up with a slow glance. “I can try,” she said. “Is there any more whiskey in your flask?”

  He produced the flask, and they both bent over Rope, forcing a generous portion of the liquor down his throat. Then, alternately bathing the wound and his forehead, they watched. They were rewarded presently by a faint flicker of the eyelids and a slow flow of color in the pale cheeks. Then after a little the eyes opened.

  In an instant Ferguson’s lips were close to Rope’s ear. “Who shot you, Rope, old man?” he asked eagerly. “You don’t need to be afraid to tell me, it’s Ferguson.”

  The wounded man’s eyes were glazed with a dull incomprehension. But slowly, as though at last he was faintly conscious of the significance of the question, his eyes glinted with the steady light of returning reason. Suddenly he smiled, his lips opening slightly. Both watchers leaned tensely forward to catch the low words.

  “Ferguson told me to look out,” he mumbled. “He told me to be careful that they didn’t get me between them. But I wasn’t thinkin’ it would happen just that way.” And now his eyes opened scornfully and he struggled and lifted himself upon one arm, gazing at some imaginary object.

  “Why,” he said slowly and distinctly, his voice cold and metallic, “you’re a hell of a range boss! Why you—!” he broke off suddenly, his eyes fixed full upon Miss Radford. “Why, it’s a woman! An’ I thought— Why, ma’am,” he went on, apologetically, “I didn’t know you was there! . . . But you ain’t goin’ to run off no calf while I’m lookin’ at you. Shucks! Won’t the Ol’ Man be some surprised to know that Tucson an’—”

  He shuddered spasmodically and sat erect with a great effort.

  “You’ve got me, damn you!” he sneered. “But you won’t never get anyone—”

  He swung his right hand over his head, as though the hand held a pistol. But the arm suddenly dropped, he shuddered again, and sank slowly back—his eyes wide and staring, but unseeing.

  Ferguson looked sharply at Miss Radford, who was suddenly bending over the prostrate man, her head on his breast. She arose after a little, tears starting to her eyes.

  “He has gone,” she said slowly.

  CHAPTER XV

  A FREE HAND

  It was near midnight when Ferguson rode in to the Two Diamond ranchhouse leading Rope’s pony. He carefully unsaddled the two animals and let them into the corral, taking great pains to make little noise. Rope’s saddle—a peculiar one with a high pommel bearing a silver plate upon which the puncher’s name was engraved—he placed conspicuously near the door of the bunkhouse. His own he carefully suspended from its accustomed hook in the lean-to. Then, still carefully, he made his way inside the bunkhouse and sought his bunk.

  At dawn he heard voices outside and he arose and went to the door. Several of the men were gathered about the step talking. For an instant Ferguson stood, his eyes roving over the group. Tucson was not there. He went back into the bunkhouse and walked casually about, taking swift glances at the bunks where the men still slept. Then he returned to the door, satisfied that Tucson had not come in.

  When he reached the door again he found that the men of the group had discovered the saddle. One of them was saying something about it. “That ain’t just the way I take care of my saddle,” he was telling the others; “leavin’ her out nights.”

  “I never knowed Rope to be that careless before,” said another.

  Ferguson returned to the bunkhouse and ate breakfast. After the meal was finished he went out, caught up Mustard, swung into the saddle, and rode down to the ranchhouse door. He found Stafford in the office. The latter greeted the stray-man with a smile.

  “Somethin’ doin’?” he questioned.

  “You might call it that,” returned Ferguson. He went inside and seated himself near Stafford’s desk.

  “I’ve come in to tell you that I saw some rustlers workin’ on the herd yesterday,” he said.

  Stafford sat suddenly erect, his eyes lighting interrogatively.

  “It wasn’t Ben Radford,” continued Ferguson, answering the look. “You’d be surprised if I told you. But I ain’t tellin’—now. I’m waitin’ to see if someone else does. But I’m tellin’ you this: They got Rope Jones.”

  Stafford’s face reddened with anger. “They got Rope, you say?” he demanded. “Why, where—damn them!”

  “Back of the ridge about fifteen miles up the crick,” returned Ferguson. “I was ridin’ along the edge of the plateau an’ I saw a man down there shoot another. I got down as soon as I could an’ found Rope. There wasn’t nothin’ I could do. So I planted him where I found him an’ brought his horse back. There was two rustlers there. But only one done the shootin’. I got the name of one.”

  Stafford cursed. “I’m wantin’ to know who it was!” he demanded. “I’ll make him—why, damn him, I’ll—”

  “You’re carryin’ on awful,” observed Ferguson dryly. “But you ain’t doin’ any good.” He leaned closer to Stafford. “I’m quittin’ my job right now,” he said.

  Stafford leaned back in his chair, surprised into silence. For an instant he glared at the stray-man, and then his lips curled scornfully.

  “So you’re quittin’,” he sneered; “scared plum out because you seen a man put out of business! I reckon Leviatt wasn’t far wrong when he said—”

  “I wouldn’t say a lot,” interrupted Ferguson coldly. “I ain’t admittin’ that I’m any scared. An’ I ain’t carin’ a heap because Leviatt’s been gassin’ to you. But I’m quittin’ the job you give me. Ben Radford ain’t the man who’s been rustlin’ your cattle. It’s someone else. I’m askin’ you to hire me to find out whoever it is. I’m wantin’ a free hand. I don’t want anyone askin’ me any questions. I don’t want anyone orderin’ me around. But if you want the men who are rustlin’ your cattle, I’m offerin’ to do the job. Do I get it?”

  “You’re keepin’ right on—workin’ for the Two Diamond,” returned Stafford. “But I’d like to get hold of the man who got Rope.”

  Ferguson smiled grimly. “That man’ll be gittin’ his some day,” he declared, rising. “I’m keepin’ him for myself. Mebbe I won’t shoot him. I reckon Rope’d be some tickled if he’d know that the man who shot him could get a chance to think it over while some man was stringin’ him up. You ain
’t sayin’ anything about anything.”

  He turned and went out. Five minutes later Stafford saw him riding slowly toward the river.

  As the days went a mysterious word began to be spoken wherever men congregated. No man knew whence the word had come, but it was whispered that Rope Jones would be seen no more. His pony joined the remuda; his saddle and other personal effects became prizes for which the men of the outfit cast lots. Inquiries were made concerning the puncher by friends who persisted in being inquisitive, but nothing resulted. In time the word “rustler” became associated with his name, and “caught with the goods” grew to be a phrase that told eloquently of the manner of his death. Later it was whispered that Leviatt and Tucson had come upon Rope behind the ridge, catching him in the act of running off a Two Diamond calf. But as no report had been made to Stafford by either Leviatt or Tucson, the news remained merely rumor.

  Ferguson had said nothing more to any man concerning the incident. To do so would have warned Tucson. And neither Ferguson nor Miss Radford could have sworn to the man’s guilt. In addition to this, there lingered in Ferguson’s mind a desire to play this game in his own way. Telling the men of the outfit what he had seen would make his knowledge common property—and in the absence of proof might cause him to appear ridiculous.

  But since the shooting he had little doubt that Leviatt had been Tucson’s companion on that day. Rope’s scathing words—spoken while Miss Radford had been trying to revive him—. “You’re a hell of a range boss,” had convinced the stray-man that Leviatt had been one of the assailants. He had wondered much over the emotions of the two when they returned to the spot where the murder had been committed, to find their victim buried and his horse gone. But of one thing he was certain—their surprise over the discovery that the body of their victim had been buried could not have equalled their discomfiture on learning that the latter’s pony had been secretly brought to the home ranch, and that among the men of the outfit was one, at least, who knew something of their guilty secret. Ferguson thought this to be the reason that they had not reported the incident to Stafford.