CHAPTER IX
TOM MAKES A COLLECTION
The attackers drew back and gathered together for consultation. West'sanger had stirred their own smoldering resentment at the police, haddominated them, and had brought them on a journey of vengeance. Butthey had not come out with any intention of storming a defendedfortress. The enthusiasm of the small mob ebbed.
"I reckon we done bit off more'n we can chaw," Harvey Gosse murmured,rubbing his bristly chin. "I ain't what you might call noways anxiousto have them fellows spill lead into me."
"Ten of us here. One man, an Injun, an' a breed girl over there. Youlookin' for better odds, Harv?" jeered the leader of the party.
"I never heard that a feller was any less dead because an Injun or agirl shot him," the lank smuggler retorted.
"Be reasonable, Bully," urged Barney with his ingratiating whine. "Wecome out to fix the red-coat. We figured he was alone except for Tom,an' o' course Tom's with us. But this here's a different proposition.Too many witnesses ag'in' us. I reckon you ain't tellin' us it's safeto shoot up Angus McRae's daughter even if she is a metis."
"Forget her," the big whiskey-runner snarled. "She won't be a witnessagainst us."
"Why won't she?"
"Hell's hinges! Do I have to tell you all my plans? I'm sayin' shewon't. That goes." He flung out a gesture of scarcely restrained rage.He was not one who could reason away opposition with any patience. Itwas his temperament to override it.
Brad Stearns rubbed his bald head. He always did when he was workingout a mental problem. West's declaration could mean only one of twothings. Either the girl would not be alive to give witness or shewould be silent because she had thrown in her lot with the big trader.
The old-timer knew West's vanity and his weakness for women. From TomMorse he had heard of his offer to McRae for the girl. Now he had nodoubt what the man intended.
But what of her? What of the girl he had seen at her father's camp,the heart's desire of the rugged old Scotchman? In the lightnessof her step, in the lift of her head, in speech and gesture andexpression of face, she was of the white race, an inheritor of itscivilization and of its traditions. Only her dusky color and a certainwild shyness seemed born of the native blood in her. She was proud,passionate, high-spirited. Would she tamely accept Bully West for hermaster and go to his tent as his squaw? Brad didn't believe it. Shewould fight--fight desperately, with barbaric savagery.
Her fight would avail her nothing. If driven to it, West would takeher with him into the fastnesses of the Lone Lands. They woulddisappear from the sight of men for months. He would travel swiftlywith her to the great river. Every sweep of his canoe paddle wouldcarry them deeper into that virgin North where they could live on whathis rifle and rod won for the pot. A little salt, pemmican, and flourwould be all the supplies he needed to take with them.
Brad had no intention of being a cat's-paw for him. The older man hadcome along to save Tom Morse from prison and for no other reason. Hedid not intend to be swept into indiscriminate crime.
"Don't go with me, Bully," Stearns said. "Count me out. Right here'swhere I head for Whoop-Up."
He turned his horse's head and rode into the darkness.
West looked after him, cursing. "We're better off without thewhite-livered coyote," he said at last.
"Brad ain't so fur off at that. I'd like blame well to be moseyin' toWhoop-Up my own self," Gosse said uneasily.
"You'll stay right here an' go through with this job, Harv," Westtold him flatly. "All you boys'll do just that. If any of you's gota different notion we'll settle that here an' now. How about it?" Hestraddled up and down in front of his men, menacing them with knottedfists and sulky eyes.
Nobody cared to argue the matter with him. He showed his broken teethin a sour grin.
"Tha's settled, then," he went on. "It's my say-so. My orders go--ifthere's no objections."
His outthrust head, set low on the hunched shoulders, moved from rightto left threateningly as his gaze passed from one to another. If therewere any objections they were not mentioned aloud.
"Now we know where we're at," he continued. "It'll be thisaway. Mostof us will scatter out an' fire at the rocks from the front here; theothers'll sneak round an' come up from behind--get right into therocks before this bully-puss fellow knows it. If you get a chance,plug him in the back, but don't hurt the Injun girl. Y' understand? Iwant her alive an' not wounded. If she gets shot up, some one's liableto get his head knocked off."
But it did not, after all, turn out quite the way West had planned it.He left out of account one factor--a man among the rocks who had beendenied a weapon and any part in the fighting.
The feint from the front was animated enough. The attackers scatteredand from behind clumps of brush grass and bushes poured in a fire thatkept the defenders busy. Barney, with the half-breeds and the Indianat heel, made a wide circle and crept up to the red sandstoneoutcroppings. He did not relish the job any more than those behindhim did, but he was a creature of West and usually did as he was toldafter a bit of grumbling. It was not safe for him to refuse.
To Tom Morse, used to Bully West and his ways, the frontal attack didnot seem quite genuine. It was desultory and ineffective. Why? Whattrick did Bully have up his sleeve? Tom put himself in his place tosee what he would do.
And instantly he knew. The real attack would come from the rear. Withthe firing of the first shot back there, Bully West would charge.Taken on both sides the garrison would fall easy victims.
The constable and Onistah were busy answering the fire of thesmugglers. Sleeping Dawn was crouched down behind two rocks, thebarrel of her rifle gleaming through a slit of open space betweenthem. She was compromising between the orders given her and theanxiety in her to fight back Bully West. As much as she could she keptunder cover, while at the same time firing into the darkness whenevershe thought she saw a movement.
Morse slipped rearward on a tour of investigation. The ground herefell away rather sharply, so that one coming from behind would have toclimb over a boulder field rising to the big rocks. It took Tom only acasual examination to see that a surprise would have to be launched byway of a sort of rough natural stairway.
A flat shoulder of sandstone dominated the stairway from above. Uponthis Morse crouched, every sense alert to detect the presence of anyone stealing up the pass. He waited, eager and yet patient. What hewas going to attempt had its risk, but the danger whipped the blood inhis veins to a still excitement.
Occasionally, at intervals, the rifles cracked. Except for that noother sound came to him. He could keep no count of time. It seemed tohim that hours slipped away. In reality it could have been only a fewminutes.
Below, from the foot of the winding stairway, there was a sound, sucha one as might come from the grinding of loose rubble beneath the soleof a boot. Presently the man on the ledge heard it again, this timemore distinctly. Some one was crawling up the rocks.
Tom peered into the darkness intently. He could see nothing except theflat rocks disappearing vaguely in the gloom. Nor could he hear againthe crunch of a footstep on disintegrated sandstone. His nerves grewtaut. Could he have made a mistake? Was there another way up frombehind?
Then, at the turn of the stairway, a few feet below him, a figure rosein silhouette. It appeared with extraordinary caution, first a head,then the barrel of a rifle, finally a crouched body followed by bowedlegs. On hands and knees it crept forward, hitching the weapon alongbeside it. Exactly opposite Morse, under the very shadow of thesloping ledge on which he lay, the figure rose and straightened.
The man stood there for a second, making up his mind to move on. Hewas one of the half-breeds West had brought with him. Almost into hisear came a stern whisper.
"Hands up! I've got you covered. Don't move. Don't say a word."
Two arms shot skyward. In the fingers of one hand a rifle wasclenched.
Morse leaned forward and caught hold of it. "I'll take this," he said.The brown fingers relaxed. "Skirt roun
d the edge of the rock there.Lie face down in that hollow. Got a six-shooter."
He had. Morse took it from him.
"If you move or speak one word, I'll pump lead into you," the Montanancautioned.
The half-breed looked into his chill eyes and decided to take nochances. He lay down on his face with hands stretched out exactly asordered.
His captor returned to the shoulder of rock above the trail. Presentlyanother head projected itself out of the darkness. A man crept up, andlike the first stopped to take stock of his surroundings.
Against the back of his neck something cold pressed.
"Stick up your hands, Barney," a voice ordered.
The little man let out a yelp. "Mother o' Moses, don't shoot."
"How many more of you?" asked Morse sharply.
"One more."
The man behind the rifle collected his weapons and put Barneyalongside his companion. Within five minutes he had added a third manto the collection.
With a sardonic grin he drove them before him to Beresford.
"I'm a prisoner an' not in this show, you was careful to explain tome, Mr. Constable, but I busted the rules an' regulations to collect afew specimens of my own," he drawled by way of explanation.
Beresford's eyes gleamed. The debonair impudence of the procedureappealed mightily to him. He did not know how this young fellow haddone it, but he must have acted with cool nerve and superb daring.
"Where were they? And how did you get 'em without a six-shooter?"
"They was driftin' up the pass to say 'How-d'you-do?' from the backstairway. I borrowed a gun from one o' them. I asked 'em to come alongwith me and they reckoned they would."
The booming of a rifle echoed in the rocks to the left. From out ofthem Jessie McRae came flying, something akin to terror in her face.
"I've shot that West. He tried to run in on me and--and--I shot him."Her voice broke into an hysterical sob.
"Thought I told you to keep out of this," the constable said. "I seemto have a lot of valuable volunteer help. What with you and friendMorse here--" He broke off, touched at her distress. "Never mind aboutthat, Miss McRae. He had it coming to him. I'll go out and size up thedamage to him, if his friends have had enough--and chances are theyhave."
They had. Gosse advanced waving a red bandanna handkerchief as a flagof truce.
"We got a plenty," he said frankly. "West's down, an' another of theboys got winged. No use us goin' on with this darned foolishness.We're ready to call it off if you'll turn Morse loose."
Beresford had walked out to meet him. He answered, curtly. "No."
The long, lank whiskey-runner rubbed his chin bristles awkwardly. "We'lowed maybe--"
"I keep my prisoners, both Morse and Barney."
"Barney!" repeated Gosse, surprised.
"Yes, we've got him and two others. I don't want them. I'll turn 'emover to you. But not Morse and Barney. They're going to the post withme for whiskey-running."
Gosse went back to the camp-fire, where the Whoop-Up men had carriedtheir wounded leader. Except West, they were all glad to drop thebattle. The big smuggler, lying on the ground with a bullet in histhigh, cursed them for a group of chicken-hearted quitters. His angercould not shake their decision. They knew when they had had enough.
The armistice concluded, Beresford and Morse walked over to thecamp-fire to find out how badly West was hurt.
"Sorry I had to hit you, but you would have it, you know," theconstable told him grimly.
The man snapped his teeth at him like a wolf in a trap. "You didn'thit me, you liar. It was that li'l' hell-cat of McRae. You tell herfor me I'll get her right for this, sure as my name's Bully West."
There was something horribly menacing in his rage. In the jumpinglight of the flames the face was that of a demon, a countenancetwisted and tortured by the impotent lust to destroy.
Morse spoke, looking steadily at him in his quiet way. "I'm servin'notice, West, that you're to let that girl alone."
There was a sound in the big whiskey-runner's throat like that ofan infuriated wild animal. He glared at Morse, a torrent of abusestruggling for utterance. All that he could say was, "You damnedtraitor."
The eyes of the younger man did not waver. "It goes. I'll see you'reshot like a wolf if you harm her."
The wounded smuggler's fury outleaped prudence. In a surge ofmomentary insanity he saw red. The barrel of his revolver roseswiftly. A bullet sang past Morse's ear. Before he could fire again,Harvey Gosse had flung himself on the man and wrested the weapon fromhis hand.
Hard-eyed and motionless, Morse looked down at the madman withoutsaying a word. It was Beresford who said ironically, "Talking aboutthose who keep faith."
"You hadn't oughta of done that, Bully," Gosse expostulated. "We'ddone agreed this feud was off for to-night."
"Get your horses and clear out of here," the constable ordered. "Ifthis man's able to fight he's able to travel. You can make campfarther down the creek."
A few minutes later the clatter of horse-hoofs died away. Beresfordwas alone with his prisoners and his guests.
Those who were still among the big rocks came forward to thecamp-fire. Jessie arrived before the others. She had crept to the campon the heels of Beresford and Morse, driven by her great anxiety tofind out how badly West was hurt.
From the shadows of a buffalo wallow she had seen and heard what hadtaken place.
One glance of troubled curiosity she flashed at Morse. What sort ofman was this quiet, brown-faced American who smuggled whiskey in toruin the tribes, who could ruthlessly hold a girl to a bargain thatincluded horsewhipping for her, who for some reason of his own foughtbeside the man taking him to imprisonment, and who had flung defianceat the terrible Bully West on her behalf? She hated him. She alwayswould. But with her dislike of him ran another feeling now, born ofthe knowledge of new angles in him.
He was hard as nails, but he would do to ride the river with.
Man-Size Page 9