Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  “What the hell?” I demanded of the universe at large. “Is everybody in Montaner crazy? Whar air you doin’ tryin’ to murder me in my sleep?”

  “I warn’t, you jack-eared lunkhead,” snarled he, when he could talk.

  “Then what’d you hit me with that there pinch bar for?” I demanded.

  “I didn’t know it was you,” says he, gitting up and dusting his britches. “I thought it was a grizzly b’ar when you riz up out of the dark. Did you bust out?”

  “Naw, I never,” I said. “I told you I was stayin’ in jail to do Johnny a favor. And you know what that son of Baliol done? He framed it up with Bissett’s friends to git me hung. Come on. I’m goin’ over and interview the dern skunk right now.”

  So we went over to Johnny’s office, and the door was unlocked and a candle burning, but he warn’t in sight.

  * * * * *

  They was a small iron safe there, which I figgered he had my guns locked up in, so I got a rock and busted it open, and sure enough there my shooting- irons was. They was also a gallon of corn licker there, and me and Abed’ was discussing whether or not we had the moral right to drink it, when I heard somebody remark in a muffled voice: “Whumpff! Gfuph! Oompg!”

  So we looked around and I seen a pair of spurs sticking out from under a camp cot over in the corner. I grabbed hold of the boots they was on, and pulled ’em out, and a human figger come with ‘em. It was Johnny. He was tied hand and foot and gagged, and he had a lump onto his head about the size of a turkey aig.

  I pulled off the gag, and the first thing he says was: “If you sons of Perdition drinks my private licker I’ll have yore hearts’ blood!”

  “You better do some explainin’,” I says resentfully. “What you mean, siccin’ Bissett’s friends onto me?”

  “I never done no sech!” says he heatedly. “Right after I left the jail I come to the office here, and was jest fixin’ to git hold of my friends to frame the fake necktie party, when somebody come in at the door and hit me over the head. I thought it was Bige comin’ in and didn’t look around, and then whoever it was clouted me. I jest while ago come to myself, and I was tied up like you see.”

  “If he’s tellin’ the truth,” says old Abed’ “ — which he seems to be, much as I hates to admit it — it looks like some friend of Bissett’s overheard you all talkin’ about this thing, follered Johnny over and put him out of the way for the time bein’, and then raised a mob of his own, knowin’ Breck wouldn’t put up no resistance, thinkin’ they was friends. I told you — who’s that?”

  We all drawed our irons, and then put ’em up as Bige Gantry rushed in, holding onto the side of his head, which was all bloody.

  “I jest had a bresh with the outlaws!” he hollered. “I been trailin’ ’em all night! They waylaid me while ago, three miles out of town! They nearly shot my ear off! But if I didn’t wing one of ‘em, I’m a Dutchman!”

  “Round up a posse!” howled Johnny, grabbing a Winchester and cartridge belt. “Take us back to where you had the scrape, Bige—”

  “Wait a minute,” I says, grabbing Bige. “Lemme see that ear!” I jerked his hand away, disregarding the spur he stuck into my laig, and bellered: “Shot, hell! That ear was chawed, and I’m the man which done it! You was one of them illegitimates which tried to hang me!”

  He then whipped out his gun, but I knocked it out of his hand and hit him on the jaw and knocked him through the door. I then follered him outside and taken away the bowie he drawed as he rose groggily, and throwed him back into the office, and went in and throwed him out again, and went out and throwed him back in again.

  “How long is this goin’ on?” he ast.

  “Probably all night,” I assured him. “The way I feel right now I can keep heavin’ you in and out of this office from now till noon tomorrer.”

  “Hold up!” gurgled he. “I’m a hard nut, but I know when I’m licked! I’ll confess! I done it!”

  “Done what?” I demanded.

  “I hit Johnny on the head and tied him up!” he howled, grabbing wildly for the door jamb as he went past it. “I rigged the lynchin’ party! I’m in with the rustlers!”

  “Set him down!” hollered Abed’, grabbing holt of my shirt. “Quick, Johnny! Help me hold Breckinridge before he kills a valurebull witness!”

  But I shaken him off impatiently and sot Gantry onto his feet. He couldn’t stand, so I helt him up by the collar and he gasped: “I lied about tradin’ shots with the outlaws. I been foolin’ Johnny all along. The rustlers ain’t no Wyoming gang; they all live around here. Ted Bissett is the head chief of ‘em—”

  “Ted Bissett, hey?” whooped Abed’, doing a war-dance and kicking my shins in his glee. “See there, you big lummox? What’d I tell you? What you think now, after showin’ so dern much affection for them cussed sheepmen? Jest shootin’ Bissett in the arm, like he was yore brother, or somethin’! S’wonder you didn’t invite him out to dinner. You ain’t got the—”

  “Aw, shet up!” I said fretfully. “Go on, Gantry.”

  “He ain’t a legitimate sheepman,” says he. “That’s jest a blind, him runnin’ sheep. Ain’t no real sheepmen mixed up with him. His gang is jest the scrapin’s of the country, and they hide out on his ranch when things gits hot. Other times they scatters and goes home. They’re the ones which has been killin’ honest sheepman and cattlemen — tryin’ to set the different factions agen each other, so as to make stealin’ easier. The Hunkies ain’t in on the deal. He jest brung ’em out to herd his sheep, because his own men wouldn’t do it, and he was afeared if he hired local sheepherders, they’d ketch onto him. Naturally we wanted you outa the way, when we knowed you’d come up here to run down the rustlers, so tonight I seen my chance when Johnny started talkin’ about stagin’ that fake hangin’. I follered Johnny and tapped him on the head and tied him up and went and told Bissett about the business, and we got the boys together, and you know the rest. It was a peach of a frame-up, and it’d of worked, too, if we’d been dealing with a human bein’. Lock me up. All I want right now is a good, quiet penitentiary where I’ll be safe.”

  “Well,” I said to Johnny, after he’d locked Gantry up, “all you got to do is ride over to Bissett’s ranch and arrest him. He’s laid up with his arm, and most of his men is crippled. You’ll find a number of ’em over by the jail. This oughta elect you.”

  “It will!” says he, doing a war-dance in his glee. “I’m as good as elected right now! And I tell you, Breck, t’ain’t the job alone I’m thinkin’ about. I’d of lost my gal if I’d lost the race. But she’s promised to marry me if I ketched them rustlers and got re-elected. And she won’t go back on her word, neither!”

  “Yeah?” I says with idle interest, thinking of my own true love. “What’s her name?”

  “Margaret Brewster!” says he.

  “What?” I yelled, in a voice which knocked old Abed’ over on his back like he’d been hit by a cyclone. Them which accuses me of vi’lent and onusual conduck don’t consider how my emotions was stirred up by the knowledge that I had went through all them humiliating experiences jest to help a rival take my gal away from me. Throwing Johnny through the office winder and kicking the walls out of the building was jest a mild expression of the way I felt about the whole dern affair, and instead of feeling resentful, he ought to have been thankful I was able to restrain my natural feelings as well as I done.

  * * *

  SHARP’S GUN SERENADE; OR, EDUCATE OR BUST

  First published in Action Stories, January 1937. Also published as “Educate Or Bust” (with modifications)

  I WAS heading for War Paint, jogging along easy and comfortable, when I seen a galoot coming up the trail in a cloud of dust, jest aburning the breeze. He didn’t stop to pass the time of day. He went past me so fast Cap’n Kidd missed the snap he made at his hoss, which shows he was sure hightailing it. I recognized him as Jack Sprague, a young waddy which worked on a spread not far from War Paint. His face was pale an
d sot in a look of desprut resolution, like a man which has jest bet his pants on a pair of deuces, and he had a rope in his hand though I couldn’t see nothing he might be aiming to lasso. He went fogging on up the trail into the mountains and I looked back to see if I could see the posse. Because about the only time a outlander ever heads for the high Humbolts is when he’s about three jumps and a low whoop ahead of a necktie party.

  I seen another cloud of dust, all right, but it warn’t big enough for more’n one man, and purty soon I seen it was Bill Glanton of War Paint. But that was good enough reason for Sprague’s haste, if Bill was on the prod. Glanton is from Texas, original, and whilst he is a sentimental cuss in repose he’s a ring-tailed whizzer with star-spangled wheels when his feelings is ruffled. And his feelings is ruffled tolerable easy.

  As soon as he seen me he yelled, “Where’d he go?”

  “Who?” I says. Us Humbolt folks ain’t overflowing with casual information.

  “Jack Sprague!” says he. “You must of saw him. Where’d he go?”

  “He didn’t say,” I says.

  Glanton ground his teeth slightly and says, “Don’t start yore derned hillbilly stallin’ with me! I ain’t got time to waste the week or so it takes to git information out of a Humbolt Mountain varmint. I ain’t chasin’ that misguided idjit to do him injury. I’m pursooin’ him to save his life! A gal in War Paint has jilted him and he’s so broke up about it he’s threatened to ride right over the mortal ridge. Us boys has been watchin’ him and follerin’ him around and takin’ pistols and rat-pizen and the like away from him, but this mornin’ he give us the slip and taken to the hills. It was a waitress in the Bawlin’ Heifer Restawrant which put me on his trail. He told her he was goin’ up in the hills where he wouldn’t be interfered with and hang hisself!”

  “So that was why he had the rope,” I says. “Well, it’s his own business, ain’t it?”

  “No, it ain’t,” says Bill sternly. “When a man is in his state he ain’t responsible and it’s the duty of his friends to look after him. He’ll thank us in the days to come. Anyway, he owes me six bucks and if he hangs hisself I’ll never git paid. Come on, dang it! He’ll lynch hisself whilst we stands here jawin’.”

  “Well, all right,” I says. “After all, I got to think about the repertation of the Humbolts. They ain’t never been a suicide committed up here before.”

  “Quite right,” says Bill. “Nobody never got a chance to kill hisself up here, somebody else always done it for him.”

  But I ignored this slander and reined Cap’n Kidd around jest as he was fixing to bite off Bill’s hoss’s ear. Jack had left the trail but he left sign a blind man could foller. He had a long start on us, but we both had better hosses than his’n and after awhile we come to where he’d tied his hoss amongst the bresh at the foot of Cougar Mountain. We tied our hosses too, and pushed through the bresh on foot, and right away we seen him. He was climbing up the slope toward a ledge which had a tree growing on it. One limb stuck out over the aidge and was jest right to make a swell gallows, as I told Bill.

  But Bill was in a lather.

  “He’ll git to that ledge before we can ketch him!” says he. “What’ll we do?”

  “Shoot him in the laig,” I suggested, but Bill says, “No, dern it! He’ll bust hisself fallin’ down the slope. And if we start after him he’ll hustle up to that ledge and hang hisself before we can git to him. Look there, though — they’s a thicket growin’ up the slope west of the ledge. You circle around and crawl up through it whilst I git out in the open and attracts his attention. I’ll try to keep him talkin’ till you can git up there and grab him from behind.”

  So I ducked low in the bresh and ran around the foot of the slope till I come to the thicket. Jest before I div into the tangle I seen Jack had got to the ledge and was fastening his rope to the limb which stuck out over the aidge. Then I couldn’t see him no more because that thicket was so dense and full of briars it was about like crawling through a pile of fighting bobcats. But as I wormed my way up through it I heard Bill yell, “Hey, Jack, don’t do that, you dern fool!”

  “Lemme alone!” Jack hollered. “Don’t come no closer. This here is a free country! I got a right to hang myself if I wanta!”

  “But it’s a dam fool thing to do,” wailed Bill.

  “My life is rooint!” asserted Jack. “My true love has been betrayed. I’m a wilted tumble-bug — I mean tumble-weed — on the sands of Time! Destiny has slapped the Zero brand on my flank! I—”

  I dunno what else he said because at that moment I stepped into something which let out a ear-splitting squall and attached itself vi’lently to my hind laig. That was jest my luck. With all the thickets they was in the Humbolts, a derned cougar had to be sleeping in that’n. And of course it had to be me which stepped on him.

  Well, no cougar is a match for a Elkins in a stand-up fight, but the way to lick him (the cougar, I mean; they ain’t no way to lick a Elkins) is to git yore lick in before he can clinch with you. But the bresh was so thick I didn’t see him till he had holt of me and I was so stuck up with them derned briars I couldn’t hardly move nohow. So before I had time to do anything about it he had sunk most of his tushes and claws into me and was reching for new holts as fast as he could rake. It was old Brigamer, too, the biggest, meanest and oldest cat in the Humbolts. Cougar Mountain is named for him and he’s so dang tough he ain’t even scairt of Cap’n Kidd, which is plumb pizen to all cat- animals.

  Before I could git old Brigamer by the neck and haul him loose from me he had clawed my clothes all to pieces and likewise lacerated my hide free and generous. In fact he made me so mad that when I did git him loose I taken him by the tail and mowed down the bresh in a fifteen foot circle around me with him, till the hair wore off of his tail and it slipped out of my hands. Old Brigamer then laigged it off down the mountain squalling fit to bust yore ear- drums. He was the maddest cougar you ever seen, but not mad enough to renew the fray. He must of recognized me.

  At that moment I heard Bill yelling for help up above me so I headed up the slope, swearing loudly and bleeding freely, and crashing through them bushes like a wild bull. Evidently the time for stealth and silence was past. I busted into the open and seen Bill hopping around on the aidge of the ledge trying to git holt of Jack which was kicking like a grasshopper on the end of the rope, jest out of rech.

  “Whyn’t you sneak up soft and easy like I said?” howled Bill. “I was jest about to argy him out of the notion. He’d tied the rope around his neck and was standin’ on the aidge, when that racket bust loose in the bresh and scairt him so bad he fell offa the ledge! Do somethin’.”

  “Shoot the rope in two,” I suggested, but Bill said, “No, you cussed fool! He’d fall down the cliff and break his neck!”

  But I seen it warn’t a very big tree so I went and got my arms around it and give it a heave and loosened the roots, and then kinda twisted it around so the limb that Jack was hung to was over the ledge now. I reckon I busted most of the roots in the process, jedging from the noise. Bill’s eyes popped out when he seen that, and he reched up kind of dazed like and cut the rope with his bowie. Only he forgot to grab Jack before he cut it, and Jack hit the ledge with a resounding thud.

  “I believe he’s dead,” says Bill despairingful. “I’ll never git that six bucks. Look how purple he is.”

  “Aw,” says I, biting me off a chew of terbacker, “all men which has been hung looks that way. I remember onst the Vigilantes hung Uncle Jeppard Grimes, and it taken us three hours to bring him to after we cut him down. Of course, he’d been hangin’ a hour before we found him.”

  “Shet up and help me revive him,” snarled Bill, gitting the noose off of his neck. “You seleck the damndest times to converse about the sins of yore infernal relatives — look, he’s comin’ too!”

  Because Jack had begun to gasp and kick around, so Bill brung out a bottle and poured a snort down his gullet, and pretty soon Jack sot up and felt of his
neck. His jaws wagged but didn’t make no sound.

  Glanton now seemed to notice my disheveled condition for the first time. “What the hell happened to you?” he ast in amazement.

  “Aw, I stepped on old Brigamer,” I scowled.

  “Well, whyn’t you hang onto him?” he demanded. “Don’t you know they’s a big bounty on his pelt? We could of split the dough.”

  “I’ve had a bellyfull of old Brigamer,” I replied irritably. “I don’t care if I never see him again. Look what he done to my best britches! If you wants that bounty, you go after it yoreself.”

  “And let me alone!” onexpectedly spoke up Jack, eyeing us balefully. “I’m free, white and twenty-one. I hangs myself if I wants to.”

  “You won’t neither,” says Bill sternly. “Me and yore paw is old friends and I aim to save yore wuthless life if I have to kill you to do it.”

  “I defies you!” squawked Jack, making a sudden dive betwixt Bill’s laigs and he would of got clean away if I hadn’t snagged the seat of his britches with my spur. He then displayed startling ingratitude by hitting me with a rock and, whilst we was tying him up with the hanging rope, his langwidge was scandalous.

  “Did you ever see sech a idjit?” demands Bill, setting on him and fanning hisself with his Stetson. “What we goin’ to do with him? We cain’t keep him tied up forever.”

  “We got to watch him clost till he gits out of the notion of killin’ hisself,” I says. “He can stay at our cabin for a spell.”

  “Ain’t you got some sisters?” says Jack.

  “A whole cabin-full,” I says with feeling. “You cain’t hardly walk without steppin’ on one. Why?”

  “I won’t go,” says he bitterly. “I don’t never want to see no woman again, not even a mountain-woman. I’m a embittered man. The honey of love has turnt to tranchler pizen. Leave me to the buzzards and cougars.”