“I’m putting this up,” he said.
Seven-Up drew the locket to him. The sight of it wrought an amazing change in him. The insane light died out of his eyes and was succeeded by a cold, metallic gleam. The hectic color in his face changed to a queer pallor.
“Las,” he asked, “where did you get this locket?”
“It’s my wife’s. What’s it your business?”
“What’s your wife’s name?”
“Amy.”
“What was her last name before she married you?”
“Legget,” said Laskar, his interest now aroused.
Seven-Up closed his eyes for a moment. “Las,” he said, “It’s a curious thing that I never noticed before you’d lost a thumb. When did you lose it?”
“When I was thirteen years old,” Laskar said coldly. “What’s that your business?”
“You’re a liar!” shrieked Seven-Up. “You’re Bill Henley!”
He reached for his holster, to find it empty. Making queer throaty noises, he staggered to the door, flung it open, and fought his way through the snow to the lean-to, where the horses were tethered. Laskar followed, a growing fear in his eyes.
When Seven-Up reached the lean-to, he fumbled under a pile of snow-covered straw, bringing forth the knife and gun he had taken from Laskar. He was straightening up when Laskar hurled himself forward, striking savagely at the hand that held the weapon.
He succeeded in knocking the gun from Seven-Up’s grasp, and it hurtled several feet away to bury itself in a snow drift.
Seven-Up snarled like a cornered wolf and tried to use the knife, but Laskar seized his arm.
Locked tightly, they reeled around in the snow, fighting silently and desperately. Seven-Up’s age was against him, but he was fighting with a ferocity that had twenty years of brooding for vengeance behind it.
A dozen times he came near twisting his knife hand free. But Laskar’s ability saved him and his muscles did not fail.
They crashed against a corner of the dugout and rebounded to the edge of a huge snow-drift. There Laskar exerted his strength, forcing Seven-Up back into the snow.
Seven-Up lost his balance, dropped the knife, and went down, Laskar on top. The younger man lay with his full weight on Seven-Up.
“Don’t,” complained Seven-Up feebly. “You’re hurtin’ me, Las. Git off.” He whined with pain. “Git off, Las. I’m layin’ acrost a rock.”
Laskar wriggled to one side, but to make sure, he swept a hand under the old man.
He struck something hard that was not a rock and that caused him to pull his hand back suddenly.
“Help me!” he panted. .
Together they clawed away the snow and disclosed the body of a man, frozen and rigid. The face was the face of the man Laskar had seen riding the black horse many nights ago. He stood up and passed a hand over his eyes. Where was the black horse ? Mechanically he glanced around at the lean-to. The black horse was there, snuggled between the other two.
Suddenly he realized what Seven-Up was doing.
“Hey!” he cried.
Seven-Up was astride the dead man, clutching at his left hand and screaming with rage. “It’s Bill Henley!”
In proof, he held up to Laskar’s view the left hand of the corpse on which was a curiously deformed thumbnail.
Laskar did not stop to examine it. He pulled Seven-Up to his feet. At once he had a new fight on his hands. He was trying to keep the old man away from the body when he heard shouts and saw half-a-dozen cowboys approaching—his own men.
* * * *
They got Seven-Up back in the dugout and plied him with whisky and food. They told Laskar how his wife had worried about him and how as soon as the storm ended they had come out to look for him.
That night they played cards, they danced, they sang, they played cards and yelled in pure joy.
It was all sweet music to Seven-Up and Laskar.
Christmas day dawned clear and cold. Seven-Up, still weak but rational now, awoke to the smell of cooking food and the sound of cheerful voices.
“Say,” he said, “are you real gents, or am I still seein’ things?” He looked at Laskar. “Did I hear you say your wife’s name was Amy Legget? Don’t lie to me, Las,” he pleaded.
“I reckon, you wasn’t dreaming, father-in-law,” Laskar whooped, passing over the whisky bottle.
Seven-Up passed a hand over his forehead. “And was I seein’ things when I thought I’d found Bill Henley out there in the snow?” he asked hesitatingly.
“That was Bill Henley, all right,” Laskar said. “The boys searched him before they planted him, and found letters and such to prove he was Bill Henley all right.”
Seven-Up sighed deeply and lay back in the bunk. “Las,” he said, “there’s one more thing I’d like to know. I always thought Bill Henley had somethin’ to do with Amy leavin’ home. Did he?”
“Hush, you old fool,” said Laskar softly. “That’s another story—one Amy will tell you when we get back home tonight.”
The Charles Alden Seltzer Megapack Page 214
