Gunsight Pass: How Oil Came to the Cattle Country and Brought a New West

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER VI

  BY WAY OF A WINDOW

  The trail of rice led down Mission Street, turned at Junipero, crossedinto an alley, and trickled along a dusty road to the outskirts of thefrontier town.

  The responsibility Joyce had put upon him uplifted Dave. He had followedthe horse-race gamblers to town on a purely selfish undertaking. But hehad been caught in a cross-current of fate and was being swept intodangerous waters for the sake of another.

  Doble and Miller were small fish in the swirl of this more desperateventure. He knew Brad Steelman by sight and by reputation. The man'scoffee-brown, hatchet face, his restless, black eyes, the high, narrowshoulders, the slope of nose and chin, combined somehow to give him thelook of a wily and predacious wolf. The boy had never met any one who soimpressed him with a sense of ruthless rapacity. He was audacious anddeadly in attack, but always he covered his tracks cunningly. Suspectedof many crimes, he had been proved guilty of none. It was a safe bet thatnow he had a line of retreat worked out in case his plans went awry.

  A soft, low whistle stayed his feet. From behind a greasewood bush Bobrose and beckoned him. Dave tiptoed to him. Both of them crouched behindcover while they whispered.

  "The 'dobe house over to the right," said Bob. "I been up and tried tolook in, but they got curtains drawn. I would've like to 've seen howmany gents are present. Nothin' doin'. It's a strictly private party."

  Dave told him what he had learned from the daughter of Emerson Crawford.

  "Might make a gather of boys and raid the joint," suggested Hart.

  "Bad medicine, Bob. Our work's got to be smoother than that. How do weknow they got the old man a prisoner there? What excuse we got forattacktin' a peaceable house? A friend of mine's brother onct got shotup makin' a similar mistake. Maybe Crawford's there. Maybe he ain't. Sayhe is. All right. There's some gun-play back and forth like as not. Ab'ilin' of men pour outa the place. We go in and find the old man with abullet right spang through his forehead. Well, ain't that too bad! In therookus his own punchers must 'a' gunned him accidental. How would thatstory listen in court?"

  "It wouldn't listen good to me. Howcome Crawford to be a prisoner there,I'd want to know."

  "Sure you would, and Steelman would have witnesses a-plenty to swear theold man had just drapped in to see if they couldn't talk things over andmake a settlement of their troubles."

  "All right. What's yore programme, then?" asked Bob.

  "Darned if I know. Say we scout the ground over first."

  They made a wide circuit and approached the house from the rear, wormingtheir way through the Indian grass toward the back door. Dave creptforward and tried the door. It was locked. The window was latched and theblind lowered. He drew back and rejoined his companion.

  "No chance there," he whispered.

  "How about the roof?" asked Hart.

  It was an eight-roomed house. From the roof two dormers jutted. No lightissued from either of them.

  Dave's eyes lit.

  "What's the matter with takin' a whirl at it?" his partner continued."You're tophand with a rope."

  "Suits me fine."

  The young puncher arranged the coils carefully and whirled the looparound his head to get the feel of the throw. It would not do to miss thefirst cast and let the rope fall dragging down the roof. Some one mighthear and come out to investigate.

  The rope snaked forward and up, settled gracefully over the chimney, andtightened round it close to the shingles.

  "Good enough. Now me for the climb," murmured Hart.

  "Don't pull yore picket-pin, Bob. Me first."

  "All right. We ain't no time to debate. Shag up, old scout."

  Dave slipped off his high-heeled boots and went up hand over hand, usinghis feet against the rough adobe walls to help in the ascent. When hecame to the eaves he threw a leg up and clambered to the roof. In anothermoment he was huddled against the chimney waiting for his companion.

  As soon as Hart had joined him he pulled up the rope and wound it roundthe chimney.

  "You stay here while I see what's doin'," Dave proposed.

  "I never did see such a fellow for hoggin' all the fun," objected Bob."Ain't you goin' to leave me trail along?"

  "Got to play a lone hand till we find out where we're at, Bob. Doublesthe chances of being bumped into if we both go."

  "Then you roost on the roof and lemme look the range over for the oldman."

  "Didn't Miss Joyce tell me to find her paw? What's eatin' you, pard?"

  "You pore plugged nickel!" derided Hart. "Think she picked you specialfor this job, do you?"

  "Be reasonable, Bob," pleaded Dave.

  His friend gave way. "Cut yore stick, then. Holler for me when I'mwanted."

  Dave moved down the roof to the nearest dormer. The house, he judged, hadoriginally belonged to a well-to-do Mexican family and had later beenrebuilt upon American ideas. The thick adobe walls had come down from theearlier owners, but the roof had been put on as a substitute for the flatone of its first incarnation.

  The range-rider was wearing plain shiny leather chaps with a gun in anopen holster tied at the bottom to facilitate quick action. He drew outthe revolver, tested it noiselessly, and restored it carefully to itsplace. If he needed the six-shooter at all, he would need it badly andsuddenly.

  Gingerly he tested the window of the dormer, working at it from the sideso that his body would not be visible to anybody who happened to bewatching from within. Apparently it was latched. He crept across the roofto the other dormer.

  It was a casement window, and at the touch of the hand it gave way.The heart of the cowpuncher beat fast with excitement. In the shadowydarkness of that room death might be lurking, its hand alreadyoutstretched toward him. He peered in, accustoming his eyes to theblackness. A prickling of the skin ran over him. The tiny cold feet ofmice pattered up and down his spine. For he knew that, though he couldnot yet make out the objects inside the room, his face must be like aframed portrait to anybody there.

  He made out presently that it was a bedroom with sloping ceiling. A bunkwith blankets thrown back just as the sleeper had left them filled oneside of the chamber. There were two chairs, a washstand, a six-inch byten looking-glass, and a chromo or two on the wall. A sawed-off shotgunwas standing in a corner. Here and there were scattered soiled clothingand stained boots. The door was ajar, but nobody was in the room.

  Dave eased himself over the sill and waited for a moment while helistened, the revolver in his hand. It seemed to him that he could heara faint murmur of voices, but he was not sure. He moved across the bareplank floor, slid through the door, and again stopped to take stock ofhis surroundings.

  He was at the head of a stairway which ran down to the first floor andlost itself in the darkness of the hall. Leaning over the banister, helistened intently for any sign of life below. He was sure now that heheard the sound of low voices behind a closed door.

  The cowpuncher hesitated. Should he stop to explore the upper story? Orshould he go down at once and try to find out what those voices mighttell him? It might be that time was of the essence of his contract todiscover what had become of Emerson Crawford. He decided to look for hisinformation on the first floor.

  Never before had Dave noticed that stairs creaked and groaned so loudlybeneath the pressure of a soft footstep. They seemed to shout hisapproach, though he took every step with elaborate precautions. A doorslammed somewhere, and his heart jumped at the sound of it. He did nothide the truth from himself. If Steelman or his men found him herelooking for Crawford he would never leave the house alive. His foot leftthe last tread and found the uncarpeted floor. He crept, handoutstretched, toward the door behind which he heard men talking. As hemoved forward his stomach muscles tightened. At any moment some one mightcome out of the room and walk into him.

  He put his eye to the keyhole, and through it saw a narrow segment of theroom. Ad Miller was sitting a-straddle a chair, his elbows on the back.Another man, one not visible to the cowpu
ncher, was announcing a decisionand giving an order.

  "Hook up the horses, Shorty. He's got his neck bowed and he won't sign.All right. I'll get the durn fool up in the hills and show him whether hewill or won't."

  "I could 'a' told you he had sand in his craw." Shorty was speaking. Hetoo was beyond the range of Dave's vision. "Em Crawford won't sign unlesshe's a mind to."

  "Take my advice, Brad. Collect the kid, an' you'll sure have Em hogtied.He sets the world an' all by her. Y'betcha he'll talk turkey then,"predicted Miller.

  "Are we fightin' kids?" the squat puncher wanted to know.

  "Did I ask your advice, Shorty?" inquired Steelman acidly.

  The range-rider grumbled an indistinct answer. Dave did not make out thewords, and his interest in the conversation abruptly ceased.

  For from upstairs there came the sudden sounds of trampling feet, ofbodies thrashing to and fro in conflict. A revolver shot barked itssinister menace.

  Dave rose to go. At the same time the door in front of him was jerkedopen. He pushed his forty-five into Miller's fat ribs.

  "What's yore hurry? Stick up yore hands--stick 'em up!"

  The boy was backing along the passage as he spoke. He reached the newelpost in that second while Miller was being flung aside by an eruption ofmen from the room. Like a frightened rabbit Dave leaped for the stairs,taking them three at a time. Halfway up he collided with a man flyingdown. They came together with the heavy impact of fast-moving bodies. Thetwo collapsed and rolled down, one over the other.

  Sanders rose like a rubber ball. The other man lay still. He had been putout cold. Dave's head had struck him in the solar plexus and knocked thebreath out of him. The young cowpuncher found himself the active centerof a cyclone. His own revolver was gone. He grappled with a man, seizinghim by the wrist to prevent the use of a long-barreled Colt's. Thetrigger fell, a bullet flying through the ceiling.

  Other men pressed about him, trying to reach him with their fists and tostrike him with their weapons. Their high heels crushed cruelly the fleshof his stockinged feet. The darkness befriended Dave. In the massed meleethey dared not shoot for fear of hitting the wrong mark. Nor could theyalways be sure which shifting figure was the enemy.

  Dave clung close to the man he had seized, using him as a shield againstthe others. The pack swayed down the hall into the wedge of light thrownby the lamp in the room.

  Across the head of the man next him Shorty reached and raised his arm.Dave saw the blue barrel of the revolver sweeping down, but could notfree a hand to protect himself. A jagged pain shot through his head.The power went out of his legs. He sagged at the hinges of his knees.He stumbled and went down. Heavy boots kicked at him where he lay. Itseemed to him that bolts of lightning were zigzagging through him.

  The pain ceased and he floated away into a sea of space.