The spark of suspicion instantly flared into flame. He whirled on Mady, his gun seeming literally to jump of its own accord into his hand. Even in that dim light he could see the startled look in Mady’s eyes. Small likelihood that the outlaw had ever seen such a draw as that.
“Walk ahead of me to that door, Mady,” Davitt commanded. “And keep your hand away from your gun.”
Mady’s eyes now were bulging and, as Davitt’s crisp voice sounded the danger signal in his ear, his hands started upward involuntarily. Davitt made one step toward him and Mady turned and rounded the corner of the cabin.
“Knock on that door and go in ahead of me,” Davitt ordered sternly.
Mady’s knuckles rapped sharply on the door, the staccato of the knocks seeming to sound like pistol shots in the stillness of the clearing.
“Who’s there?” came a voice from within.
“Tell him,” Davitt directed.
“It’s all right, Dom,” called Mady. “A friend is here.”
As the door opened, Davitt glimpsed the unmistakable features of the ringleader of the raiders of the night before. He stooped, so that he was concealed behind Mady, and shoved his gun in the outlaw’s back. Mady stumbled inside and Davitt leaped in after him, slamming the door shut and covering the two of them.
“Sit down by that table, gents.”
Both Mady and Dommey stared at him for one brief moment, and then sat down by the table upon which a lamp burned. Davitt stood between the table and the door, close to the wall and away from the window. A swift glance about showed him there were no others present. Mady’s eyes blazed at him wrathfully, but Dommey’s gaze was cold and snaky.
“This isn’t an attack or a hold-up, you cheap night rat,” Davitt said through his teeth, the snapping light in his narrowed eyes locking with Dommey’s gaze. “I’m just here to collect what you borrowed last night. And then Mady here will tell you who I am, and you can figure your luck.”
Dommey shifted his gaze to Mady, his face darkening. There was a question in red fire in his eyes.
“Better do as he says,” Mady shot out of the corner of his mouth. “This is the great Davitt, and you’re lucky.”
“Never saw him before in my life!” exclaimed Dommey in a loud voice, looking again at Davitt and sliding his left hand along the table.
Davitt’s eye caught this sly movement instantly and just as Dommey’s hand reached the handle of a small bell, partially concealed behind other objects on the table, he leaped against the table, knocking the bell from the man’s grasp. But Dommey brought his hand against the lamp with terrific force, sending it crashing in a burst of flame and shattering of glass to the floor. Next instant the cabin was plunged into darkness.
Two red tongues streaked from Davitt’s gun as he leaped back and dropped. Then came the smashing of chairs flung at him and the cabin rocked with the roar of guns. A moment of stillness ensued and brought the thunder of hoofs from the clearing and shouts and shots outside.
“Lay low, Davitt!” rang Dommey’s voice. “I want the dirty double-crosser that’s in this room.”
There were two bursts of fire from across the cabin and a gurgling moan. Then a double sound as of a sack of grain being dumped on the floor. One of the two outlaws had shot the other.
Before Davitt could figure his next move, the door of the cabin burst open.
“March out of there with your paws up … you’re covered!” sang out the voice of Buck Granger. “If you’re there, Davitt, don’t move. We’re giving the others two seconds to start moving.”
“It’s all right. There’s only one other here.” It was Mady who spoke and now he walked out the door with his hands in the air.
Davitt struck a match, holding it far to his left. Its flickering flame showed the body of Dommey crumpled on the floor. “Come on in, Buck,” Davitt called. “I reckon we’ve got a dead one here on our hands.”
In another moment Buck and another were inside, matches were struck and another lamp on a shelf lighted.
Davitt and Buck stared at each other. Davitt didn’t know the third man in the room, although it was the man Buck had talked with during the afternoon.
“I told you that you couldn’t leave me out of it,” Buck said in a tone of triumph.
“So it seems,” returned Davitt coolly. “And maybe I couldn’t have handled this by myself as I thought.” He smiled wryly.
“You bet you couldn’t!” cried Buck. “Not with five of ’em layin’ here for you, and Mady ready to make the sixth. Who’s that?”
“That was our hold-up man,” Davitt said dryly. “I broke my promise and left town to come here with Mady and get our stuff back, Buck. Now maybe you’ll do a little explaining on your own hook.”
“Sure,” said Buck, grinning. “This gent is one of ten men the bank sneaked into town, fearing Mady was going to try a raid. My lady friend introduced him to me. They’ve been watching every move Mady made, and he knew all about Mady’s visit to you this morning, and he knew all about Mady’s taking charge of Dommey’s crew, too. The rest was easy. We just kept a watch on you. I cashed in the chips as soon as I saw you and Mady leave the Miners’ Home. Then all we had to do was follow you and Mady out here. We’ve got the others of the gang corralled outside. I feel pretty sure of five hundred dollars and a gun, and there ought to be enough in the bunch to pay you off, too. There’s just one thing we got to have an understanding about.”
“And what’s that?” Davitt asked, frowning
“That you and me stay put as partners. We work too well together to quit now,” Buck said, smiling.
“I was thinking it would be better if you quit the game,” Davitt said slowly. “Not that I don’t like to have you along, but …”
He paused as Buck called to someone outside, and the next moment Polly Peters came in, her face glowing with excitement.
“Tell him what you think, Polly,” Buck said, pointing directly at Davitt.
“I don’t mind Buck playing a dangerous game if there’s plenty of money in it and he has you with him,” said the girl seriously. “It is far from being a disgrace to be in your … your profession, Mel.”
“I guess that hooks me,” said Davitt, his eyes brimming with admiration. “I told Buck you were a sensible girl, but I didn’t think you had it in you to plan a thing like this out. No, don’t tell me you didn’t, for I swear that I won’t believe you anyway.”
“That’s right,” sang Buck. “In this case, it’ll have to be Davitt, Granger, and Company. And I feel sure there’s some money out for this bunch we’ve caught that’ll be worth collecting. Let’s get our bearings now and start back. You can tell me about your end of the scheme later, Mel, although I’ve guessed most of it.”
“On the contrary, I’ll tell it to the company,” Davitt said, smiling and bowing to Polly. “With your permission, you cow hound,” he added, favoring Buck with a prodigious wink.
About the Author
Robert J. Horton was born in Coudersport, Pennsylvania, in 1889. As a very young man he traveled extensively in the American West, working for newspapers. For several years he was sports editor for the Great Falls Tribune in Great Falls, Montana. He began writing Western fiction for Munsey’s All-Story Weekly magazine before becoming a regular contributor to Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine. By the mid-1920s Horton was one of three authors to whom Street & Smith paid five cents a word—the other two being Frederick Faust, perhaps better known as Max Brand, and Robert Ormond Case. Some of Horton’s serials for Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine were subsequently brought out as books by Chelsea House, Street & Smith’s book publishing company. Although all of Horton’s stories appeared under his byline in the magazine, for their book editions Chelsea House published them either as by Robert J. Horton or by James Roberts. Sometimes, as was the case with Rovin’ Redden (Chelsea House, 1925) by James
Roberts, a book would consist of three short novels that were editorially joined to form a “novel” and seriously abridged in the process. Other times the stories were magazine serials, also abridged to appear in book form, such as Unwelcome Settlers (Chelsea House, 1925) by James Roberts or The Prairie Shrine (Chelsea House, 1924) by Robert J. Horton. It may be obvious that Chelsea House, doing a number of books a year by the same author, thought it a prudent marketing strategy to give the author more than one name. Horton’s Western stories are concerned most of all with character, and it is the characters that drive the plots rather than the other way around. Attended by his personal physician, he died of bronchial pneumonia in his Manhattan hotel room in 1934 at the relatively early age of forty-four. Several of his novels, after Street & Smith abandoned Chelsea House, were published only in British editions, and Robert J. Horton was not to appear at all in paperback books until quite recently.
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