by L. P. Holmes
The means of Canole and Slonicker’s escape was plain. The bars of the window had been cut, evidently with a hacksaw.
Buck left the jail, locking the door behind him. His eyes were narrowed, his face grim. The job wasn’t finished yet. A lot of it had to be done all over again. But he knew there was nothing to do but wait until morning, for pursuit now, in the darkness, would be useless. He went back to the office to get some more sleep for the work to be done in the days ahead.
* * * * *
The pursuit did not start, however, for three days. Jack Carleton did not rally as fast as expected and Buck would not leave until he knew the sheriff was out of danger and until he had had a talk with him.
It was three days later that the doctor said that finally Buck might discuss matters with Carleton.
Carleton’s face was thin and his eyes sunken. But he was better and his head appeared to be clear. The doctor left the two of them alone.
“I’ll do most of the talkin’, Jack,” Buck advised him. “You listen, and if my plan seems sound, nod your head. In the first place, Canole and Slonicker broke jail. They had outside help. It looks like Daggett’s work to me. I aim to prove that later.
“But before they took off from the jail, they left a knife stuck in Whipple. As I see it … they knew he couldn’t run with them in the condition he was, and they was afraid of what he might tell us. So they killed him before slopin’. That was murder. I’m goin’ after ’em. Where they went … I don’t know. But I’ll get ’em, if it takes ten years. I’m pinnin’ a deputy’s badge on myself. Do you agree?”
Carleton nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered weakly. “I’m authorizin’ you to get ’em, Buck. Don’t take no chances with polecats like them. If they don’t cave quick, lad … go a-shootin’. And good luck.”
Buck leaned down and pressed the sheriff’s hand. “I’ll be seein’ you, Jack. Just concentrate on gettin’ well. Don’t worry. Adios.”
* * * * *
Buck went back to the office and made his preparations. He got a scabbarded Winchester from the office storeroom, cleaned and oiled it, and stuffed several boxes of ammunition into a pair of saddlebags.
From one drawer of the battered desk he unearthed a deputy’s badge and pinned it on the breast pocket of his shirt. Then he gathered up the equipment and went out.
Donna was just coming from the hotel. Buck had already told her of Slonicker and Canole’s escape—as well as the fate of Curly Whipple. She was pale and distressed looking.
“You’re going after … those two?” she asked.
Buck nodded. “Yeah. Your uncle authorizes me to.”
“There will be more bloodshed?”
“If they don’t give in quiet … there will be.”
His eyes were cool and steady and there was a relentless set to his jaw.
“There’s nothin’ else to be done, you see. When men rob and kill they don’t deserve any consideration. They destroy others … well, they oughta be caught at any cost and made to pay the penalty for their crimes.”
Donna was silent, so he added: “They don’t rate bein’ called men … killers like Slonicker and Canole. They’ve outlawed themselves. It ain’t revenge I’m workin’ for, it’s justice. And if they come in peaceable with me, I won’t have to do any shootin’ … any killin’.”
When Donna finally spoke, her voice was strained. “How … how long will this sort of thing keep up … this killing?” She got the last word out with a little shudder.
“As long as men are what they are, I reckon.”
“I mean … with you?”
Buck shrugged. “That’s a question I don’t have an answer for. But don’t think I enjoy it. Mostly … well, it just has to be done, and it seems like I been kinda elected to do it … lately. I’ll give ’em every chance to come back in quietly.”
He would have passed on, but she laid a timid hand on his arm. “Uncle Jack thinks a lot of you. Don’t take any chances … please.”
Buck looked at her long and inscrutably. He laughed a little harshly. “Thanks … I won’t. Hasta la vista!”
He stalked off toward the livery stable, a stern, dark figure, bearing the balance of wayward men’s lives in his cold, deadly courage—in the wizardry of his muscular, brown hands.
Donna watched him and tears veiled her eyes.
“Buck,” she murmured softly. “Buck … be careful. For Uncle Jack … and for me, too.”
* * * * *
At the stable Buck looked over the sheriff’s string of horses and picked out a chunky, square-built roan—a mean-looking brute with a hammer head and rolling eyes. But there was endurance and bottom in every line of the horse.
Next Buck hung his scabbarded rifle under the left stirrup leather and tied the saddlebags behind the cantle. Then he mounted and swung out into the street.
Two dusty, travel-worn cowpunchers came swinging into view. They were Jiggs Maloney and Shorty Razee.
At sight of Buck they reined in thankfully.
“Hopin’ to find you, Buck,” panted Shorty. “Your hunch was right. There’s plenty of cattle in the Kanab Basin country that used to be the Red Mesa’s Bar C stuff. Most of ’em have got our iron run over into the S C Connected. But the dirty buzzards were mighty certain of themselves.
“A lot of the stuff was just vented … they was that sure of not bein’ checked up on. No wonder Daggett didn’t want Jack to get very far from his office. He knew that if Jack ever rode down into the Kanab Basin, he’d find out plenty. We killed one critter and skinned off the brand, just as proof. Jiggs, where’s that hunk of hide?”
Jiggs produced it, and Buck studied it with narrowed eyes. He nodded.
“Good work, boys. This just about cinches matters. There’s been things happenin’ since you were gone. Jack was wounded, but he’s doin’ better now and he just needs rest. You can get the whole story from Miss Donna. Keep that piece of hide safe. I got a job ahead. I don’t know when it’ll be finished. Tomorrow, after you two talk to Miss Donna, you get out to the ranch. Tell Red he’s foreman till I get back. Tell him to keep things movin’. I’ll be seein’ you.”
Jiggs was struck with an afterthought. “We see’d Slonicker and Canole ridin’ into the basin, Buck. Shorty and me was out there breathin’ our horses in a little gully just off the trail. Those two didn’t see us, but we recognized them. The spalpeens seemed in one devil of a hurry.”
Buck’s eyes gleamed. “That’s the best news of all, Jiggs. Much obliged. Adios!”
VIII
Two days later a tall, auburn-haired woman rode into Cedarville on the evening stage. She had a sweet mouth, the expression of which was belied by a veil of bitterness in her eyes. She registered at the hotel, then went directly to the sheriff’s office.
Donna was there, having just left her uncle in a restful sleep.
“How do you do,” said the new arrival. “Could you tell me where I might find Sheriff Carleton?”
“I’m sorry,” answered Donna. “My uncle is not well. He was wounded the other day while arresting a man. He is sleeping just now. Is there any way I could help you?”
The woman hesitated. “Is there a man named Buck English around?”
Donna felt her heart go cold.
“He … he isn’t here now. He is a deputy of my uncle’s and is out after a couple of escaped prisoners. When he returns … who shall I tell him was asking for him?”
“I am Laura Kane. He wrote me a few days ago, telling me to come here … that he had some vital information for me. Perhaps you could tell me if he was right. Is there a rider named Whipple in this vicinity … Curly Whipple?”
Donna gulped and felt the room spinning. Finally she stammered: “There … there was. He … he is dead … now.”
Laura Kane took a backward step, her hands going to her throat. “Dead? Curly Whi
pple … dead? Did … did Buck kill him?”
She had turned pale and her eyes were wide and stricken.
Donna, recovering some of her poise, jumped up and held out a chair.
“No,” she answered once she had Laura Kane settled comfortably in the chair. “Buck did not kill him. He was murdered by the men Buck is out after.”
Laura Kane sank deeper into the chair. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Donna felt a swift rush of pity. “Tell me … please, Miss Kane. Perhaps I can help.”
Laura Kane shrugged wearily. “There isn’t a great deal to tell. You see … I used to be Curly Whipple’s wife. He … he deserted me and our baby … over a year ago. I sued for a divorce and resumed my maiden name. When … when Curly and I were married … I signed over half my ranch to him.
“After he left me … I wanted to get out of the country. I have a brother … Johnny … who is in the Texas Rangers. He wants me and my child to come and live with him in Texas. I have a buyer for the ranch, but I could not sell until I had reached some kind of an understanding with Curly. Buck wrote that Curly was around here. So I came right up. Now … now he’s dead.”
Donna did not say anything. There was nothing she could say. All of the sympathy in her generous nature flowed out to this woman in distress. At the same time a tremendous, surging relief engulfed her. That letter—that fragment she had read—she understood it now—and it was as if the weight of the world had lifted from her shoulders.
Impulsively she went to Laura Kane and put her arms about her.
“When Buck comes back … I’m sure he will help you make matters right. Until then … I want to be your friend. You must come out and stay at the ranch with me. I don’t know that much about legal things except that they can take so much time. Besides, you’ll be lonely here in town. Will you come?”
Laura nodded. “Yes … and thank you. You are very kind. I … I haven’t many friends. Buck is one of the oldest and most valued. You see, Buck and my brother Johnny used to be the best of friends. They were inseparable. When Johnny went into the Rangers he wanted Buck to join up with him. But Buck wouldn’t go. He’s different … somehow. He’s wild and splendid. Authority from others irks him. He prefers to travel his own trail in his own way. But no brother could be kinder and more gentle than Buck has been to me.” She paused as if to catch her breath. Then she added: “Yes … I will go out to your ranch.”
* * * * *
Donna fairly outdid herself in her hospitality to Laura Kane. The Red Mesa Ranch was quiet and when Donna had circulated the story of her guest, the ranch hands were friendly and sympathetic. Red Scudder became particularly attentive to Laura Kane, a development that Donna observed with great enthusiasm.
At the same time, there were moments when Donna was very grave, her eyes shadowed and thoughtful. She spent a lot of her time down at the mesa rim, looking out across the desert. She grew watchful—always listening—as though she were expecting someone to ride in, and, as the days moved by into a week, she became nervous and apprehensive. She fought a losing fight, and one night, in the privacy of her own room, she buried her face in a pillow and sobbed with abandon.
“Buck!” she cried. “Buck … come back to me!”
IX
The town of Washoe was a crude, mean, vicious little corner of iniquity, standing beside a lonely road, far to the southeast corner of Kanab Basin. Its inhabitants were furtive—watchful. Its business was merely the serving of doubtful pleasures to roistering riders who rode in from the wild reaches of the country around.
It was evening when Buck English rode into the place. For seventy long miles he had been traveling slowly, patiently, and tirelessly, following the trail of Slonicker and Canole.
It had not been an easy job, for various inhabitants of the basin had looked askance upon him for his questions and cold purpose. There were many men in the basin who had no friendship for the law and what verged closely on being an outlaw brotherhood existed in the place.
One way and another, however—Buck eked out hints and traces, and he felt, as he rode down the street of Washoe, that he had run his quarry to earth. He did not advertise his presence. His badge of authority was out of sight, and his dusty, unshaven appearance easily passed for that of a man on the dodge.
His first care was food and rest for his mount—then a wash and food for himself. He ate his greasy dinner in a shadowy, disreputable hash house, where even the waiter was furtive and watchful.
Full-fed, Buck rolled a cigarette and looked the town over. The biggest building in it was one that housed a saloon and gambling den. Also, there was a dance hall adjacent, where painted, dead-eyed women preyed on drink-befuddled riders.
The windows of the place were thick with dirt and cobwebs, but Buck managed, by a little judicious sleuthing to get a look into the place. Almost immediately his face expressed satisfaction. In the gambling den, with three other men, were Wolf Slonicker and Monk Canole, sitting at a card table.
Buck turned back to the edge of the splintery board sidewalk and smoked his cigarette to the last ash. He tossed the butt aside, brought forth his badge of authority, and repinned it on his shirt. He drew his guns from their holsters and spun the cylinders, then replaced them.
For a long time he looked away through the night toward the northwest, to where Donna Carleton lay sobbing on her pillow. Then his head came up and his shoulders squared. As he turned toward the door of the place a shaft of light struck his face, showing it to be set and implacable. Swiftly he stalked inside.
A low gasp, then a dead silence greeted his appearance. Buck moved down one side of the room, with the wall at his back. Slonicker and Canole had not looked up. All their thought and interest was on the card game. Arriving opposite them, some ten paces away, Buck stopped and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt. His voice sounded with low, piercing intensity.
“Slonicker … Canole … I want you!”
The heads of the renegades snapped up, and their eyes met his.
Slonicker went gray.
Canole licked his lips. “Buck English!” he croaked. “Buck English!”
“And the law!” snapped Buck. “You’re under arrest, you two … for the murder of Curly Whipple. Reach high!”
Their hands rose slowly, as they kneed their way back from the table. They stood up. Slonicker was motionless. Canole was teetering back and forth on his toes. It was plain that the apelike renegade was working out a decision in that feral skull of his.
Buck sensed it and cautioned him with a snapping command.
“Don’t try it, Canole. Your life … don’t try it …”
The rest of his words were drowned in the blur of curses that spouted from Canole’s lips. The man had gone berserk from hate and fear. He snatched at his guns, lunging to one side as he did so.
Buck’s hands flickered and his first slug caught Canole in the very act of the monkey-like leap. The murderer coughed and staggered, but held his feet. His guns were out, almost level. Buck’s guns blared and blared again. At each impact of lead Canole staggered farther and farther backward. A loose chair interrupted his progress. He stumbled, sat down in it. The curses caught in his throat and he toppled to the floor.
As Canole fell, Slonicker made his gamble. He dropped on his knees behind the card table, from which the other players had scattered like frightened quail. His first shot spun Buck’s hat from his head. Then Buck fired, and Slonicker died as he was thumbing the hammer for a second shot. His narrow head jerked back, a blue-edged hole just above one eye. He fell.
From his crouch, Buck looked around the room. “I gave ’em their chance,” he said wearily. “Looks like I ride alone.”
* * * * *
Curt Daggett sat by himself in the back room of the Silver King saloon. There was a curious pallor about his thin, slit-mouthed face. His pale eyes were more shifty than ever.
He was plainly a man heavily besieged by trepidation and mental unrest. A glass and whiskey bottle were on the table before him and from time to time he poured himself a stiff drink and gulped it down.
It was midmorning, and the sun lay warm along the street outside. A weary horse and rider came jogging in to Cedarville. The roan was gaunt and high of flank and his eyes no longer rolled. Buck English was as weary and worn as his mount, but there was a determined, implacable set to his jaw.
He reined in before the Silver King and dismounted stiffly.
Stalking through the door of the saloon, he accosted the bartender. “Daggett around?”
The bartender started to give a glib, evasive answer, but something he saw in Buck’s eyes caused him to gulp and nod emphatically. “In … in the back room,” he stuttered.
Without knocking, Buck swung open the designated door and stepped through.
Daggett started—then sat as still as a graven statue.
Buck kicked up a chair and sat down.
“We’re talkin’ turkey, Daggett … just you and me,” he said abruptly. “First … Slonicker and Canole are dead. I caught up with ’em … tried to arrest ’em … but they took their chance. It didn’t pan out for either one. Your gang is pretty badly thinned, Daggett. You’re the only one amountin’ to much that’s left … and you’re leavin’.”
Daggett poured and gulped another drink. “What … what do you mean … I’m leavin’?”
“Just that, Daggett,” Buck replied. “This neck of the woods can get along very well without you. You’re lucky. The men who worked for you got nothin’ as a reward but death. But you lose … just the same. I’m givin’ you just five hours to pack up and ride out of here. If you’re not gone by that time … well, there may very well be a lynchin’ bee. Savvy?”
Under the burn of the liquor Daggett got hold of a few fragments of courage. “You’re crazy,” he scoffed. “You’ve got nothing on me. I am not responsible for anything Slonicker and Canole might have done.”
Buck shrugged. “Your line of thought is easy to read, Daggett. You figure with Slonicker and Canole and Whipple dead, there isn’t any danger of them talkin’ about your part in this. The same goes for Buzz Layton and Pete Vanalia.