Rainbow Range

by Robert J. Horton

  The Three Colors was far-famed, and Ted drew in a swift breath as he stared about at the strange scene. It was totally unlike any resort he ever had been in—a combination of hurdy-gurdy, gambling hell, drinking place, and madhouse. Yet he carried in his pocket a letter to Miles Henseler, proprietor of the place. He realized why his father had given him a letter to this man, for if anyone in Rainbow would be sure to know if Hunter was in town, or have information as to his whereabouts, it certainly would be the proprietor of such a rendezvous.

  Edging his way through the crowds about the tables and bar, Ted soon was convinced of the futility of locating his man in reasonable time, even if he were in the place. The groups of spectators about the tables were constantly changing. It was impossible to crowd in and get a look at the players at most of the tables. The bars were lined three deep. Under the yellow glow of the hanging lamps was bedlam. Ted decided to take up a station at the upper end of one of the bars and scan the faces of those who passed in or out or milled about him.

  The bar he chose was the shorter of the two, due to the fact that a small room was partitioned off between its upper end and the front of the building. Bit by bit—almost inch by inch, it might be said—he edged his way through the crowd to the bar. The space he occupied was cramped, for he was backed against the outthrust portion of the little room. One of the bartenders served him shortly with a drink of white liquor without troubling himself to ask him what he wanted. Ted put a silver dollar on the bar and looked down the long line of faces as the bartender flipped the dollar into a box. There was no change. Here was a gold mine as rich as any to be found in the desert hills far to southward, thought Ted, as he managed to spill the drink upon the floor.

  Then the door of the little room opened and a man came out—a big man, florid, broad of shoulder, with a big cigar between his thick lips and a massive gold watch chain across his wide expanse of chest.

  Ted Wayne knew instinctively that this man was Miles Henseler. He had the unmistakable air that is always exhibited by the proprietor of such a resort. And Ted was favorably impressed. Not by the man’s attire or features in general so much as by his eyes. He had shot a keen glance at Ted and it had roved all the way down the bar and about the room, but in the brief instant that their eyes had met, Ted had caught a gleam of honesty in the other’s gray eyes that pleased him.

  Henseler walked slowly along behind the bar, nodding to this one and that, and speaking a word to his bartenders. Then he came back in Ted’s direction where there was an exit from behind the bar, a leaf that could be raised and lowered.

  Meanwhile, Ted had been thinking. It might take him several days to find Jim Hunter, if he happened to be in town, at the rate he was going. And every hour he remained in Rainbow was fraught with the possibility of trouble. Rather than being so independent, wouldn’t he be serving his ends better to present the letter to Henseler and find out what he could at once? Certainly it would hasten the completion of his mission.

  As the big man reached the end of the bar and nodded to Ted to take his glass from the leaf of the bar so he could lift it to go out, Ted spoke in a low voice. “Are you Mister Henseler?”

  The cool, gray eyes regarded him steadily. “Yes,” was the reply, the word bit off short.

  “I’d like to see you,” said Ted in a voice that just reached the other’s ears. “I have a letter from my father, Ed Wayne, of the Whippoorwill.”

  Henseler raised his brows with interest, looking closer at Ted. “Yes, I see the resemblance now,” he said. “Come in.” He lifted the leaf at the end of the bar, and Ted passed through and followed him into the little room, which proved to be a private office.

  “So, you’re Ed Wayne’s son,” said Henseler, taking a chair by the desk and motioning Ted to another. “Well, you’ve got old Ed’s brand on your face and you’re big enough. What’s your name?”

  “Theodore”—Ted smiled—“but they usually shorten it.” He seemed to like this man from the start.

  “Ted, eh? Well, young man, if you come over here to try to tear this town up like you’ve torn Riverdale up on occasion, you’ll find yourself up against a different brand of talent. I see by your looks that you’ve been at it again. Rainbow’s so tough, I have to be square to stay here.”

  Ted saw no joke was intended. Henseler was not looking at him, but he knew he was in deadly earnest. More and more he was liking this man who spoke with such smooth geniality, yet who ran one of the most notorious resorts on the north range and enjoyed the confidence of scores of desperadoes, gunmen, bandits—even Darling himself. Ted thrilled at the thought. He wondered if he couldn’t arrange to get a look at the famous outlaw—the bandit, rustler, robber, killer, who laughed in the very faces of the sheriffs, and ruled the hardest band of cutthroats ever to ride the range north of the Missouri. He had listened to many descriptions of this outlaw, but all were vague, all were lacking in detail; they merely served to thicken the fog of mystery surrounding him.

  “I didn’t come to tear anything up,” said Ted straightforwardly, “I came on business for Dad. Here’s a letter for you.” He handed the envelope to Henseler.

  “How is the Old Man?” asked Henseler, splitting the envelope with a finger. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “He isn’t bad,” drawled Ted. “Not bad at all.”

  Henseler looked at him quickly with a twinkle in his eyes, then drew out the letter. At this moment there came three short raps on the door. “Yes?” said Henseler in a louder voice.

  The door opened and a bartender stuck in his head. “Mort Green wants to see you,” he said.

  Henseler’s brow puckered for a moment or two. “Well, tell him … no, send him in,” he decided.

  He opened the letter, glanced at Ed Wayne’s signature, and folded it again as the door opened the second time and a man came in. Ted recognized the type instantly. Green was a gambler, a cool, collected, inexorable gambler of what might be termed the middle school. He hadn’t the glamour or picturesqueness of the old school, nor the flashiness of the new school. He wore an agate ring, which constituted his jewelry. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit, with a gray shirt of light wool, a dark blue tie, black shoes, and a soft gray hat. His gray eyes were cold, his nose and lips thin, the latter straight, his jaw square. Tall and slim, he radiated a certain elegance. Ted thought he had never seen a more beautiful pair of hands.

  “Hello, Mort,” Henseler greeted his visitor. Then, noting Green’s questioning glance at Ted, he said: “This is the son of a friend of mine, meet Ted Wayne of the Whippoorwill.”

  Green nodded coolly at Ted and turned to Henseler. “Not so good,” he said crisply. There was a slight edge to his voice. “May have to draw on K.C. again.”

  Henseler chuckled. “You will do it, Mort. Faro again? No, you don’t have to tell me. How much?”

  “Ten thousand,” was the cool reply, as Green took out his cigarette case—the only cigarette case on that range.

  Ted couldn’t resist a look of admiration. Here was a man who had lost $10,000 and was as unconcerned as if he had lost $10. No wonder he never saw such men in Riverdale. But, no—it wasn’t the amount lost. For Henseler had turned to the safe beside the desk, unlocked a drawer with a key taken from a vest pocket, and now drew forth a package of bills—yellowbacks, every one. He snapped off the rubber band, peeled of a number of the bills—a considerable number, it looked to Ted—and handed them to Green.

  “Ten thousand,” he said. “Count ’em.”

  Green put them in an inside pocket of his coat. “Later,” he said as he turned to go. At the door he paused and looked at Ted. “Glad to meet you, Wayne,” he said shortly, and went out.

  Ted had gasped as he realized that the gambler had come in and borrowed $10,000 from Henseler as nonchalantly as Ted would borrow a dollar in case of necessity from a cowpuncher. And he had spoken to him as he left.

  “Coolest, sweetest gambler I ever met,” Henseler was saying. “Thought maybe you�
��d heard of Mort Green and would like to see him.” With this he turned his attention to the letter Ted had brought and read it carefully, not once, but twice. Then he folded it and looked at Ted keenly. “Did your dad tell you what was in this letter?” he asked slowly.

  Ted shook his head. “Just said to give it to you, for you might help me to find my man,” he explained.

  “I see.” Henseler nodded. “You want to find …”

  “Jim Hunter,” Ted supplied as Henseler paused purposely.

  “Ever seen Hunter?” Henseler asked.

  “No, but Dad gave me such a good description of him that I believe I could recognize him on sight … if he hasn’t changed too much.”

  “He hasn’t changed,” said Henseler dryly, flicking the ash from his cigar. “It’s funny, Ed wouldn’t …” He paused and favored Ted with a quizzical look. “I was thinking he might have sent an older man, but from what I’ve heard of you, you’re well able to take care of yourself. We get all the news out here, and you’ve figured in the reports from Riverdale more’n once. You’re fast with your gun, eh, Ted?”

  Ted shrugged his shoulders. “The boys on the ranch think so,” he replied noncommittally.

  “Yes, and there’s more than the boys on the ranch, as you say, think so.” Henseler nodded soberly. “It’s a bad thing for a man to have a reputation as a gunman, or as being extra fast with his shooting iron out this way, Wayne. It’s downright dangerous. This is probably the easiest town in Montana to get into trouble in. There’s red-hot trouble in every glass on my bars this minute, and nobody knows it better than I do. You’ve got to step slow and easy here. Did your dad tell you anything much about this Jim Hunter?”

  “Not much,” Ted confessed.

  “Well, he’s bad medicine himself,” said Henseler, lowering his voice. “He has to be handled with kid gloves, as they say. The best you can do is to deliver your message and leave the rest to him.” He sat thinking for a space.

  “Then … he’s in town?” ventured Ted.

  Henseler frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “And you don’t want to try to find out too fast. I expect you started out to find him on your own hook, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did,” Ted acknowledged. “But I thought it would take too long. Then I got a look at you and … well, I liked the way you sized up, if you’ll excuse the expression. So here I am.”

  “And a good thing,” said Henseler emphatically. “If you went around here trying to find Hunter by yourself, you’d probably run into a bullet. I don’t know whether I can get hold of him or not, but I can usually find who I want to find in this neck of the woods, and I’ll make a try. Did your dad tell you anything more to tell me?”

  Ted shook his head. He was beginning to feel foolish because he knew so little, and he resented the attitude on his father’s part in sending him on a mission that necessitated his answering most questions in the negative. “Dad told me practically nothing,” he blurted, “and I blame him for it. It makes me feel like a fool.”

  “You don’t want to think that way,” soothed Henseler. “He expected you to come direct to me with this letter and not to go scouting around on the lonesome. I reckon he told you that this wouldn’t be child’s play.”

  “He did that”—Ted scowled—“but he should have told me why it wouldn’t be child’s play. I don’t like this idea of going it blind. I could have talked more with him and probably learned more, and maybe he intended to tell me more this morning, but I left before the house was up. I had my reasons for wanting to get started before he could have a chance to change his mind.”

  “Well, your old man was always pretty smart and I don’t suppose he’s changed much,” said Henseler. “He usually knows what he’s doing. He was smart enough to send you to me, don’t overlook that.”

  Ted found no answer to this and something in the older man’s manner of speaking, and his look, restrained him. He felt himself equal to the occasion and wanted to say as much, but it would sound like boasting, and he hated the very word. He remained silent.

  “Now that he has sent you to me,” Henseler continued coolly, “the best thing for you to do is to let me help you along with this thing. I wouldn’t wander around, if I was you. You’ve had a long ride and it’s getting late. I suppose you’ve got a room? Good. Now the thing for you to do …”

  Henseler clipped off his words and sat up alert with a look on his face that showed plainly how alert he had been, regardless of his conversation with Ted. Now Ted heard what had startled the man—a queer, short series of raps, on the side of the partition, not the door.

  Henseler stepped quickly across the little room and seemed to telegraph with his knuckles against the partition. Then he resumed his chair and leaned toward his visitor with his hands on his knees.

  “The thing for you to do,” he resumed slowly, “is to go to your room and go to bed and wait till you hear from me in the morning. Suppose you do that.” The last four words were spoken more as a command than as a suggestion.

  Ted resented being taken charge of—as he thought of it—but could think of nothing else to do other than to do as he was told. After all, his mission was to get the word to Hunter as speedily as possible. And the rapping on the partition—an important signal undoubtedly. He could sense that by Henseler’s change of manner. And it certainly was to his interests to stand in with Henseler.

  “All right,” he decided, rising. “I’ll do that.”

  Henseler stopped him at the door. “I know how you feel,” he said. “You’re sore because you think things are being taken out of your hands and you’re craving action. But you’re now in strange territory, Wayne, stranger than you may think. Take a tip from me and let me steer you and keep a tight tongue … but I don’t have to tell you that. Good night.”

  As Ted passed out from behind the bar, he shot a quick glance about, but no one was near the partition. He wended his way out of the crowded place and made for the hotel with a heavy frown on his face. As he entered the small lobby, he stopped short and went cold, then hot with inward excitement.

  Standing at the counter was a man with a disfigured nose, tall, and wearing a corduroy coat. Ted could not see the eyes, but, otherwise, here was the man his father had described as Jim Hunter.

  Chapter Six

  Wayne was so startled that he stood stockstill, staring at the man’s profile. There was a small cigar case at one end of the short counter, and he quickly stepped toward this to cover his actions. He wanted to make sure of his identification by getting a look at the man’s eyes. If it was indeed Hunter, he intended to accost him at once and make known his errand. But just as he reached the dingy counter, the man turned away and went out the door.

  Wayne wanted to follow him, but the clerk was standing behind the counter, waiting for his order. He selected a cigar and lighted it while the clerk made change for a $5 bill.

  “Who was that man who just left?” Wayne asked, flipping his match aside. It was a natural question, he thought, considering the man’s facial blemish. Almost anyone might ask it.

  “Dunno,” replied the clerk, giving him a fishy glance. “Lots of people drift in and out of here.”

  “No doubt,” said Ted with a wry smile. “Still, he’s a man a fellow would remember.”

  The fishy look in the clerk’s eyes had changed to a sharp scrutiny. “And there’s men it’s a good thing to forget,” he remarked. His words and look conveyed a meaning that Ted Wayne could not fail to comprehend.

  Instead of replying to this, Wayne turned and sauntered out the door. He was certain now that the man he had seen was the man he was seeking. He was not unmindful of Miles Henseler’s admonition to go to his room and stay there until the resort proprietor saw him in the morning, but here was Hunter within his grasp, so to speak. Why should he wait when he had a legitimate message and the proper identification? Deep within him, Wayne resented being taken charge of, as he looked at it. He would much prefer to settle his business unai
ded. He was a man; his fists were sure; his gun hand was true.

  He looked up and down the dim street. It was empty. He had an inspiration. Hunter might be leaving town. His presence at the hotel would seem to indicate that he had either just arrived in town or was about to leave. There was little sense in this deduction, but Wayne headed for the livery. If Hunter were not there, he might be able to worm some information out of the barn man with the aid of a gold piece. Such a man was most apt to know about the comings and goings of the visitors and denizens of the town.

  The floating stars bathed the town in a soft light. The trees were tall and graceful shadows. All was a well of silence until suddenly a mockingbird began its errant nocturnal serenade. Wayne saw the dim light from the lantern swung in the entrance to the livery. Then a form passed quickly across its sickly beam, and Wayne recognized the tall figure of the man he sought. He hurried toward the barn to meet him, but the man swung down behind the buildings that faced the street. Wayne broke into a run. The man walked fast, and before Wayne could catch up with him he turned into a narrow alley. It was dark in the alley and Wayne could not see the man somewhere ahead of him. He stumbled over something and had to slow his pace. There was a dim square of light ahead that marked the street. Wayne saw the tall figure framed in this, and then his man crossed the street. Again Wayne ran and hurried across the street, following the other, who had entered another alley. At the far end of this was a faint glow of lamplight. This must be the man’s objective, Wayne reasoned. The mockingbird’s song had died as suddenly as it had first sounded.