XIX
BUD LEE SEEKS CROOKED CHRIS QUINNION
Going down the knoll to the bunk-house, Bud Lee cursed himself at everystride. He cursed Carson when the cattle foreman, turning to followhim, addressed a merry remark to him concerning his "lady-killingclothes." The words reminded him of Judith's and he didn't cherish theremembrance. In the bunk-house Carson watched him curiously over hisold pipe as Lee began ripping off his dress-suit.
"A feller called you up a while ago," said Carson, still bright-eyedwith interest but pretending that that interest had to do with the newwall telephone recently installed. "Sandy Weaver, it was. Said----"
"What did he want?" demanded Lee, swinging suddenly on Carson, his coatballed up in his hand and hurled viciously under a bunk.
"Wasn't I telling you?" Carson grunted. "What's eating you, Bud? Youac' mighty suspicious, like a man that had swallered poison or else wascoming down with the yeller jaundice or else was took sudden an'powerful bad with love. They all treats a man similar----"
"Damn it," growled Lee irritably, "can't you tell me what Weaver said?"
"Said, call him up, real pronto," replied Carson cheerfully. "Say,Bud, where in heck _did_ you get that outfit? By cripes, if I had aregalia like that I'd be riding herd in 'em ev'ry Sunday! On thesquare now----"
But Lee wasn't listening to him and Carson knew it. He had gonequickly to the telephone, had rung the one bell for "Central," and amoment later was speaking with Sandy Weaver of the Golden Spur saloon.Carson sucked at his pipe and kept his eyes on Lee's face.
The ensuing conversation, only one side of which came to Carson, wasbrief. Most of the talking was done by Sandy Weaver. Lee asked threequestions; the third a simple,
"Sure of it, Sandy?"
Then he jammed the receiver back upon its hook, and with no remarkcontinued his hurried dressing. When he had come in, his face had beenflushed; now it was suddenly red, the hot red of rage. His eyes, whenthey met Carson's once, were stern, bright with the same quick anger.When he had drawn on his working garb and stuffed his trousers into hisboots, he went to his bunk and tossed back the blanket. From the strawmattress he took a heavy, old style Colt revolver. Carson, stillwatching him, saw him spin the cylinder, slip a box of fresh cartridgesinto his pocket and turn to the door.
"Riding, Bud?" He got to his feet, stuffed his pipe into his pocketand reached for his hat. "Care if I mosey along?"
"What for?" asked Lee curtly.
"Oh, hell, what's the use being a hawg," Carson grumbled deep down inhis brown throat. "If you're on your way to little ol' Rocky huntingtrouble, if they's going to be shooting-fun, why can't you let me in onit?"
Lee stood a moment framed in the doorway, frowning down at Carson.Then he turned on his heel and went out, saying coolly over hisshoulder:
"Come on if you want to. Quinnion's in town."
As their horses' hoofs hammered the winding road for the forty milesinto Rocky Bend the two riders were for the most part silent. All ofthe explanation which Lee had to give, or cared to give, was summed upin the brief words:
"Quinnion's in town."
To Judith, Lee had said that night they fought together at the UpperEnd that he had recognized Quinnion's voice; "I played poker with thatvoice not four months ago." That he had had ample reason to rememberthe man as well, he had not gone on to mention. But Carson knew.
Carson had sat at Lee's left hand that night, across the table fromChris Quinnion, and had seen the look of naked hatred in two pairs ofeyes when Lee had risen to his feet and coolly branded Quinnion as acrook and a card sharp. For a little the two men had glared at eachother, their muscles corded and ready, their eyes alert and suspicious,their hands close to their pockets. Then Quinnion had sneered in thatevil voice of his: "You got the drop on me this time. Look out for thenext." He too had risen and with Lee's eyes hard upon him had gone outof the room. And Carson had been disappointed in a fight. Butnow--now that Bud Lee in this mood was going straight to Rocky Bend andQuinnion, Carson filled his deep lungs with a sigh of satisfaction.Life had grown dull here of late; there wasn't a fresh scar on hisbattered body.
Though the railroad had at last slipped through it, Rocky Bend wasstill a bad little town and proud of its badness. To the northeast laythe big timber tracts into which the Western Lumber Company was tearingits destructive way; only nine miles due west were the Rock Creekmines, running full blast; on the other sides it was surrounded bycattle ranges where a lusty brood of young untamed devils wereconstrained to give themselves soberly to their work during the long,dusty days. But at night, always on a Saturday evening, there cameinto Rocky Bend from lumber-camps, mines, and cow outfits a crowd ofmen whose blood ran red and turbulent, seeking a game of cards, a"whirl at the wheel," a night of drinking or any other amusement whichfate might vouchsafe them. Good men and bad, they were all hard menand quick. Otherwise they would not have come into Rocky Bend at all.
Lee and Carson riding out of the darkness into the dim light of thefirst of the straggling street-lamps, passed swiftly between the rowsof weather-boarded shacks and headed toward the Golden Spur saloon.
Though the hour was late there were many saddle-ponies standing withdrooping heads here and there along the board sidewalks; from more thanone barroom came the gay ragtime of an automatic piano or the scrapeand scream of a fiddle. Men lounged up and down the street, smoking,calling to one another, turning in here or there to have a drink orwatch a game.
The two newcomers, watching each man or group of men, rode on slowlyuntil they came to the building on whose false front was a giganticspur in yellow paint. Here they dismounted, tied their horses, andwent in. Carson, with a quick eye toward preparedness for what mightlie on the cards, looked for Lee's gun. It wasn't in his pocket; itwasn't in his waistband, ready to hand. It wasn't anywhere that Carsoncould see. At the door he whispered warningly:
"Better be ready, Bud. Ain't lost your gun, have you?"
Lee shook his head and stepped into the room. At the long bar werethree or four men, drinking. Quinnion was not among them. There wereother men at the round tables, playing draw, solo, stud horse. Oneglance showed that Quinnion was not in the room. But there were otherrooms at the rear for those desiring privacy. Lee, nodding this wayand that to friends who accosted him, made his way straight to the bar.
"Hello, Sandy," he said quietly.
Sandy Weaver, the bartender, looked at him curiously. A short, heavy,blond man was Sandy Weaver, who ran a fair house and gave his attentionstrictly to his own business. Save when asked by a friend to do him afavor, such a favor as to keep an eye on another man.
"Hello, Bud," returned Sandy, putting out a red hand. All expressionof interest had fled from his placid face. "Come in right away, eh?Hello, Carson. Have somethin'; on me, you know."
Lee shook his head.
"Not to-night, Sandy," he said. "Thanks just the same."
"Me," grinned Carson, "I'll go you, Sandy. Same thing--you know."
Sandy shoved out whiskey-bottle and glass. Then he turned grave eyesto Lee.
"One of these fellers can tend bar while we talk if you want, Bud," heoffered.
"You say Quinnion has been talking?" asked Lee.
"Yes. Considerable. All afternoon an' evening, I guess. I didn'thear him until I called you up."
"Then," continued the man from Blue Lake ranch, "I don't see any callfor you and me to whisper, Sandy. What did he say?"
"Said you was a liar, Bud. An' a skeerd-o-your-life damn bluff."
A faint, shadowy smile touched Lee's eyes.
"Just joshing, Sandy. But that wasn't all, was it?"
"No," said Sandy, wiping his bar carefully. "There was the other word,Bud. An'--say, Billy, tell him what Quinnion had to say down to theJailbird."
Lee turned his eyes to Billy Young. Young, a cattleman from the Up andDown range, shifted his belt and looked uncomfortable.
"Damn if I do!" he blurted
out. "It ain't none of my funeral. An' ifyou ask me, I don't like the sound of that kind of talk in my mouth.Maybe I can't find my way to church of a Sunday for staggerin' withred-eye, but I ain't ever drug a nice girl's name into a barroom."
"So," said Lee very quietly, "that's it, is it?"
"Yes," said Sandy Weaver slowly, "that's it, Bud. Us boys knowed ol'Luke Sanford an' liked him. Some of us even knowed his girl. All ofus know the sort she is. When Quinnion started his talk--oh, it's asong an' dance about you an' her all alone in some damn cabin, tryingto crawl out'n the looks of things by accusin' Quinnion of tryin' toshoot you up!--well, folks jus' laughed at him. More recent, somebodymust have took him serious an' smashed him in the mouth. He looks likeit. But," and Sandy shrugged his thick shoulders elaborately, "if it'sup to anybody it's up to you."
For a moment Bud Lee, standing very straight, his hat far back, hiseyes hard and cold, looked from one to another of the men about him.In every face he saw the same thing; their contempt for a man likeQuinnion, their wordless agreement with Sandy that it "was up to BudLee." Lee's face told them nothing.
"Where is he?" he asked presently.
"Mos' likely down to the Jailbird," said Billy, Young. "That's wherehe hangs out lately."
Lee turned and went out, Carson at his heels, all eyes following him.In his heart was a blazing, searing rage. And that rage was not forQuinnion alone. He thought of Judith as he had seen her that verynight, a graceful, gray-eyed slip of a girl, the sweetest little maidin all of the world known to him--and of how he, brutal in the surge oflove for her, had swept her into his arms, crushed her to him, forcedupon her laughing lips the kiss of his own.
"My God," he said within himself, "I was mad. It would be a good thingif I got Quinnion to-night--and he got me. Two of a kind," he toldhimself sneeringly.
As he made his way down the ill-lighted street, his hat drawn over hiseyes now. Bud Lee for a moment lost sight of the rows of rudeshanties, the drowsing saddle-ponies, the street-lamps, and saw onlythe vision of a girl. A girl clean and pure, a girl for a man to kneeldown to in worship, a girl who, as he had seen her last, was afairylike creature born of music and soft laughter and starlight, amaid indescribably sweet. In the harshness of the mood which grippedhim, she seemed to him superlatively adorable; the softness of her eyesat the moment before he had kissed her haunted him. As he strode onseeking Quinnion, who had spoken evil of her, he carried her with himin his heart.
The horrible thing was that her name had already been bandied aboutfrom a ruffian's lips. Lee winced at that even as he had winced at theremembrance of having been brutally rough with her himself. But whatwas past was past; Quinnion had talked and must talk no more.
"He'll start something the minute he sees you," cautioned Carson, hisown revolver loose in the belt under his coat, his hard fingers liketalons gripped about the butt. "Keep your eye peeled, Bud. Bettercool off a speck before you tie into him. You're too mad, I tell you,for straight, quick shooting."
Lee made no answer. Side by side the two men went on. They had leftthe sidewalk and walked down the middle of the rusty, rut-gougedstreet. Every man they met, every figure standing in the shadows,received their quick, measuring looks.
"Most likely," suggested the cattle foreman, "by now he's got drunk an'gone to sleep it off."
But Lee knew better than that. Quinnion wasn't the sort that gotdrunk. He'd drink until the alcohol stirred up all of the evil in hisugly heart; then he'd stop, always sure of his eye and his hand. Itwas far more likely that with a crowd of his own sort he was gamblingin the card-room of the Last Chance saloon, the Jailbird saloon as"white" men called it. For there was an ill-famed hang-out at the farend of the straggling town, just at the edge of the Italian settlement,that of late had come to be frequented by such as Quinnion; men whowere none too well loved by the greater part of the community, men who,like Quinnion, had served time in jail or penitentiary. Black Steve,who was both proprietor and bartender, and who looked like a low-classItalian, though he spoke the vernacular of the country, was the god ofthe "dago" quarter, the friend of those who had gotten entangled withthe law. Only last year he had killed his man in his own saloon, thengone clear, through the combined perjury of his crowd.
The street grew steadily gloomier, filled with shadows. In front ofthe Jailbird the only light came from within and made scant war on thelurking darkness without. Lee's ears were greeted with the crazy whineof an old accordion, and with men's voices lifted in laughter. Heshoved the swing door open with his shoulder, Carson pushed the otherhalf back, and the two stood on the threshold, their eyes swiftlyseeking Quinnion.
As though their presence had been a command for silence, a sudden hushfell over the Jailbird. The accordion man drew out a last gasping noteand turned black round eyes upon them. Black Steve, oily andperspiring behind his bar, caressed a heavy black mustache and lookedat them out of cold, expressionless eyes.
The first glance had shown Lee that Quinnion was not there. At leastnot in the main room, but there were the card-rooms at the rear. Hegave no sign of having felt the hostility of the many eyes turned uponhim, but went quickly down through the room, turning neither to rightnor left.
"Hol' on there," came the big booming voice of Steve. "What youfellers want, huh?"
Lee gave him no answer but strode on. Carson, at Lee's heels like agrim old dog, showed his teeth a little. Steve, striking the bar witha heavy hand, shouted in menacing tones:
"Hol' on, I say! Nobody goin' to break in on a play that's running inmy card-rooms. If you fellers want anything, you ask me."
"Go ahead, Bud," said Carson jocosely. "It's only the ol' black calfbawling same as usual."
But Lee needed no urging. He had heard voices beyond the closed doorin front of him, among them a certain high-pitched, snarling,indescribably evil voice which he knew. He put his hand on the knoband found that the door was locked. With no waste of time, he drewback a step, lifted his foot and drove his heel smashing into the lock.Then, throwing himself forward, driving his shoulder into the door, heburst it off its hinges.
At last he had found Quinnion.
Here were half a dozen men, not playing cards, but interrupted in aquiet talk. Standing on the far side of the table was a man who was asevil a thing to see as was his voice to hear; his face twisted, drawnto the left side, the left eye a mere slit of malevolence, the uneventeeth showing in an eternal, mirthless grin, a man whose hands, whenhis arms were lax as now, hung almost to his knees, a man twistedmorally, mentally, and physically.
Bud Lee had eyes only for this man. But suddenly Carson had seenanother man, seeking to screen himself behind the great, misshapen bulkof Quinnion, and with new eagerness was crying:
"It's Shorty, Bud! He's mine!"
But Shorty was no man's yet. At his back was a window; it was closedand the shade was drawn, but to Shorty it spelled safety. Head firsthe went through it, tearing the green shade down, crashing through theglass, leaving discussion behind him. With a bellow of rage Carsonwent after him, forgetful in the instant that there was another matteron hand to-night. Shorty, consigned to Carson's care and thegrain-house, had slipped away and had laughed at him. Ever since,Carson had been yearning for the chance to get his two hands onShorty's fat throat. Before the smash and tinkle of falling glass haddied away Carson, plunging as Shorty had plunged, was lost to thebulging eyes which sought to follow him, gone head first into thedarkness without.
Lee kept his eyes hard on Quinnion's. He moved a little, so that thewall was at his back. His coat was unbuttoned; his left hand was inhis pocket, his arm holding back his coat a little on that side. Theright hand was lax at his side, like Quinnion's.
He had seen the other men, though his eyes had seemed to see only oneman. One of them he knew; the others he had seen. They were the sortto be found in Quinnion's company. They were the nucleus of what wasspoken of as Quinnion's crowd.
"Quinnion," said Lee quiet
ly, "you are a damned dirty-mouthed liar."
The words came like little slaps in the face. Of the four men still inthe room with Quinnion three of them moved swiftly to one side, theireyes on their leader's face, which showed nothing of what might lie inhis mind.
"I have taken the trouble," went on Lee coolly, when Quinnion, leeringback at him, made no reply, "to ride forty miles to-night for a littletalk with you. You are a crook and a card-cheat. I told you that oncebefore. You have been telling men that I am a coward and afour-flusher. For that I am going to run you out of town to-night. Orkill you."
Then Quinnion laughed at him.
"Just for that?" he jeered. "Or because I've been tellin' a true storyabout you an'----"
He didn't get her name out. Perhaps he hadn't expected to. His eyeshad been watchful. Now, as he threw himself to one side, he whippedout his gun, dropping to one knee, his body partly concealed by thetable. At the same second Bud Lee's right hand, no longer lax, sped tothe revolver gripped under the coat at his left arm-pit.
It was a situation by no means new to the four walls of the Jailbirdnor to the men concerned. It was a two-man fight, with as yet no callfor the four friends of Quinnion to interfere. It would take the spitand snarl of a revolver, the flash of flame, the acrid smell ofburning-powder to switch their sympathetic watching into actualparticipation. No new situation certainly for Chris Quinnion who tookquick stock of the table with its heavy top and screened his body withit; no new situation for Steve, the big bartender who was at theshattered door almost as Bud Lee sent it rocking drunkenly.
Since a fight like this in a small room may end in three seconds andyet remain a fight for men to talk of at street corners for many a daythereafter, it is surely a struggle baffling adequate description. Forwhile you speak of it, it is done; while a dock ticks, two guns maycarry hot lead, and cut in two two threads of life.
Quinnion was down and shooting, with but ten steps or less between himand the man whom he sought to kill; Bud Lee was standing, tall andstraight, back to wall, his first bullet ripping into the boards of thetable, sending a flying splinter to stick in Quinnion's face, close toa squinting, slitted eye; and as the two guns spoke like one, a thirdfrom the open barroom shattered the lamp swinging from the ceilingbetween Lee and Quinnion. Steve, the bartender, had taken a hand.
Quinnion was down and shooting, with but ten steps . . .between him and the man whom he sought to kill.]
The card-room was plunged in darkness so thick that Lee's frowning eyescould no longer make out Quinnion's head above the table, so black thatto Quinnion's eyes the tall form of Lee against the wall was lost inshadow.
Judith of Blue Lake Ranch Page 19