CHAPTER FOUR
HAZEL WALTON
"Now there," said Riley Tyler, staring at the driver of a buckboard whowas tying her team in front of the Rocky Mountain store, "now there isa girl that is pretty as a li'l red wagon, new-painted."
Billy Wingo, unmoved, continued to whittle the end of the packing casehe was sharing with Tyler. He did not even look at the girl, and shewas a very handsome girl.
"Yeah," said Billy Wingo.
"Not that I cotton to a female girl as a usual thing," resumed Riley,"ever since a experience I had when young. I'll tell you about it sometime; maybe I better now."
"No, not now," Billy made haste to say; for he had heard the story ofevery single one of Tyler's love affairs at least a dozen times. "Le'stalk about somethin' pleasant. Try the weather."
"You know, just for that," trundled on Riley Tyler, "we'll go ontalking about young Hazel Walton over there. Pity she's gone in thestore. You've never taken a good look at her, have you?"
"Nor I don't want to," denied Billy with what seemed to Riley anunnecessary heat.
"Why not? Do your eyes good. Tell you, Bill, she's got thebest-looking black hair y'ever saw."
"I saw her once or twice with her uncle," Billy admitted desperately."She's all you say she is and more too. Anything to please thechildren. Don't you ever stop talkin', Riley?"
"Not when I got somethin' like Hazel to talk about," declared therelentless Riley, warming to his subject. "Y'oughta notice her eyesonce, Bill. Tell you, you never saw _eyes_ till you see hers. They'reeyes, they are! Big and black and soft and eyewinkers long as apony's. Fact. And she ain't lost a tooth. She's still got the wholethirty-four. You take my word for it, Bill, she's a whole lotdifferent from other folks."
"She's two teeth different anyway. Most generally all other folks cancrowd in their mouth are thirty-two."
"What's a tooth more or less between friends?" said the unabashedRiley. "She's got a whole mouthful, and when she smiles she shows 'emall."
"That's great," yawned Billy, closing his pocket-knife with a click."You forgot to say whether she's a good cook or not."
"She's a number one cook," Riley told him seriously. "Her coffee iscoffee, lemme tell you, and she don't fry a steak to boot-leatherneither. Not her. No. She broils it, she does. _Y'oughta_ taste hermashed potatoes. No lumps in 'em or grit or nothin', only the mealyold potato; and butter beets! My Gawd!"
"Mixes 'em up with the potato, huh?"
"Of course not, you jack--separate. And canned peas--separate.Actually she cooks those peas so they're tender as fresh ones;tenderer, by gummy! Makes her own butter, too, in a churn."
"Well, well, in a churn. I never knew they made butter thataway."
"Shut up, Bill. You ain't got any soul. I stop at Walton's for a mealevery chance I get. Y'oughta see her cookin' a meal, Bill. She rollsher sleeves up and she's got dimples in her elbows. She's a picture,and you can stick a pin in that."
"Why don't you marry the girl?"
"I've asked her," was the reply made without rancor. "She said, 'Nothanks.'"
"That's one thing in her favor."
"Yeah, I think--Hey! what you tryin' to do, insult me?"
"Insult you, you tarrapin? You wouldn't know it if I did."
"If I wasn't so comfortable, I'd show you something," declared RileyTyler, sliding farther down on the small of his long back. "But theheat has saved your life, William. Yeah, otherwise you'd be a corpseall bluggy in the middle of Main Street. I'm a wild wolf when I'mriled, you can gamble-- Yonder she comes. She didn't stay long."
Billy dug the Tyler shortribs with a hard elbow. "Where's yourmanners? Go over and untie the lady's team."
"Too far. She'd have 'em untied by the time I got there. Besides, I'mtoo comfortable. Another thing, I'd have to get up. No, no, I'll stayhere."
Hazel Walton stepped into the buckboard, kicked the brake-lever andswung her team like a workman. The tall near mule laid back his longears and planted both hind feet on the dashboard. _Smack! Smack!_went the whip. The mule tucked his tail, shook his mean head and triedto jump through his collar. The brake-lever shot forward under theshove of the girl's straightened right leg. The sensible off mulethrew his head to the left to ease the hard drag on his mouth as thegirl swayed back on the near rein. The near mule, hearing the slitherof the locked wheels behind him, and with his windpipe bent like a bowand his chin forced back to his chest, decided that fighting wouldavail him nothing and quieted at once.
"Regular driver, that girl," Billy said approvingly. "It ain't everywoman can drive a pair of those big freight mules. I never knew shewas like that."
"Lots of things you dunno," Riley hastened to say. "You didn't evenknow she was pretty."
Billy hopped across the sidewalk and ran out into the middle of MainStreet. The mules, hard held, slid to a halt. Billy scooped up thepackage that had fallen from behind the seat and hurried up to thebuckboard.
"Your tarp's slipped a little, ma'am," said he, stowing away thepackage without raising his eyes to Miss Walton, who was leaning overthe back of the seat. "I'll tie it fast."
Not till the tarpaulin was fastened to his complete satisfaction did helook up. Then he realized that Riley Tyler had not told half the truthabout Hazel Walton's eyes. True, they were big and black and soft, butthey were deep too, deep as cool rock pools, and they looked at yousteadily with a straight look that somehow made you wish that you hadbeen a better boy.
Queer that he hadn't noticed this attribute before. But at none of thetwo or three times he had passed the girl on Golden Bar's Main Streethad she impressed him in the least. He could not have described her tosave his life. Perhaps it was because he had not looked into her eyesbefore to-day. But he wasted no time thinking about that. He keptright on looking into her eyes.
"You don't come in town very often," was his sufficiently inaneobservation.
"Not very often," said she, and smiled.
Yes, there were the teeth. And weren't they white! He didn't knowwhen he had seen such white teeth. And her mouth had a dimple near onecorner. Now the dimple was gone. He wished it would appear once more.
"Do it again," he found himself saying like a fool.
She wrinkled her pretty forehead at him. "What?"
"Smile," he said, with a boldness that surprised himself.
It surprised Hazel Walton, surprised her so that she jerked around tothe front, "kissed" to the mules and drove away without a word.
Billy stood quite still in the middle of Main Street, with his hat off,and looked after her a moment. Then he pulled on the hat with a jerkand returned to his packing case.
"What did she say to you?" Riley wanted to know.
"None of your business," was the ungracious reply.
"She left you sort of sudden," persisted Riley. "And why did you standstill in the middle of the street and look after her so forlorn andlong?"
"I wasn't lookin' more than ten seconds," denied Billy, jarred off hisbalance for once in his life.
"Shucks, I had time to roll a cigarette, and smoke it to the butt whileyou stood there nailed to the earth. Yeah. Tell you, Bill, you don'twanna let your feelings give you away so much. Bad business that is.Somebody's bound to pick your pocket forty ways. Y'oughta play pokermore. That would teach you self-control."
"Bluh," grunted Billy. "Think you're smart, don't you?"
"I know I am," returned Riley, crossing one knee over the other anddiddling his foot up and down to the thin accompaniment of a tinklingspur-rowel. "I got eyes, I have. I can see through a piece of glassmost generally. Oh, mush and milk, love's young dream, and when shallwe meet again."
"Aw, hell, shut up!" urged Billy, and shoved his friend off the packingcase and went elsewhere hastily.
Riley first swore, then laughed and reseated himself on the case. JackMurray, passing by, stopped and sneered openly. It was obvious thatJack was in liquor.
; "He don't care how much he picks on you, does he?" observed Jack.
Riley Tyler did not move hand or foot. But a subtle change took place.Iron turning into steel undergoes such a metamorphosis. The sixthsense of an observing old gentleman across the street and directly inline with Jack Murray informed its owner of the sudden chill in theair. The observing old gentleman, whose name was Wildcat Simms, oozedbackward through a doorway into the Old Hickory saloon.
"Why are you walking like a crab, Wildcat?" queried his friend thebartender.
"Because Jack Murray is talking to Riley Tyler."
The bartender, wise in his generation, was well able to fill in therest for himself. He joined the old gentleman behind a window at oneside of the line of fire.
Riley Tyler, meanwhile, was fixedly regarding Jack Murray.
"Meaning?" said Riley Tyler.
Jack Murray came right out into the open. "Ain't you able to stand upfor yourself no more?"
There it was--the deliberate insult. Followed the movement so swift noeye could follow. But Riley's gun caught. Jack Murray's didn't. Whenthe smoke began to wreathe upward in the windless air, Jack Murray wascalmly walking away up in the street and Riley Tyler was hunched acrossthe packing case. Blood was running down the boards of the packingcase and seeping through the cracks in the sidewalk.
Billy Wingo was the fourth man to reach Riley. The boy, for he was notyet twenty-one, had been turned over on his back on the sidewalk. Hewas unconscious. Samson, the Green-Front Store owner, was bandaging awound in Riley's neck.
"Lucky," observed Samson, "just missed the jugular."
"Where else is he shot?" queried Billy, his eyes on the blood-soakedfront of Riley's shirt.
"Right shoulder," Samson informed him.
"I heard three shots," said Billy. "Two was close together but thelast one was maybe ten seconds later."
"I only found the two holes," declared Samson.
But when Billy and another man picked up Riley to carry him to thehotel, Billy found where the third shot had gone. It had penetratedRiley's back on the left side, bored between two ribs, missed the wallof the stomach by a hair and made its exit an inch above the waistbandof the trousers.
The marshal, who had seen the crowd going into the hotel, arrived asBilly and Samson were making Riley as comfortable as possible on a cotin one of the hotel rooms.
The marshal, whose surname being Herring was commonly called "Red,"thrust out a lower lip as he surveyed the man on the bed.
"Even break, I hear," said the marshal.
Billy set him right at once. "You heard wrong, Red. Riley's guncaught. I found where the sight had slipped through a crack in theleather. Besides, Riley was plugged in the back after he was down. Doyou call that an even break?"
"Well, no," admitted Red Herring, who was inclined to be just, if beingjust did not interfere with his line of duty. "Anybody see it besidesyou?"
"I didn't see it a-tall. I didn't have to. I heard the shots--twoclose together and one a good ten seconds later. Oh, Riley was pluggedafter he was down and out, all right enough. Besides, Riley was lyingacross his gun hand when he was picked up, Samson says."
"That's right," nodded Samson.
"Jack was a little previous, sort of," frowned the marshal.
"You think so," said Billy sarcastically. "Maybe you're right."
"Well, I can't do a thing," said the marshal. "I didn't see it. Andthese fraycases will happen sometimes."
"Nobody's asking you to do anything," said Billy. "I'm looking afterthis."
"Now don't you go pickin' a fight with anybody," urged the marshal,instantly perceiving his line of duty. "Judge Driver is dead againstthese promiscuous shootings."
"Judge Driver can go to hell," Billy said with heat. "What's this herebut a promiscuous shooting, I'd like to know? And I don't see youarrestin' anybody for it. You said you couldn't."
"I didn't see this one, and besides Riley ain't been killed, and nocomplaint has been made," defended the marshal, who was no logician."But where a feller says he's gonna attend to somebody, that showspremeditation and malice aforethought, which both of 'em is against thestatute as made and provided in such cases."
"How you do run on," commented Billy.
But the Red Herring lacked a sense of humor. Heavy of soul, he frownedheavily at Billy.
"You go slow," was his fishy advice.
"Be careful and otherwise refrain from violence," observed Billy, whoseEnglish became better as his temper grew worse. "I grasp your point ofview," he added gravely. "But I don't like it. Not for a minute Idon't. I'll do as I think best. I'd rather, really."
"Don't you go startin' nothin' you can't finish," said the marshal,lost in a maze of words. "I don't want to have to arrest you."
"I don't want you to have to either," Billy averred warmly. "Arrestin'me would surely interfere with my plans. Yeah."
"A sheriff-elect had oughta set a good example," argued the marshal.
Riley Tyler rolled his head from side to side. He mutteredincoherently. The men about the cot turned to look down at him. Thenhe said, speaking distinctly:
"He shot me after I was down."
Billy Wingo raised his eyes and stared at the marshal.
"How's that, umpire?" said Billy.
"He's raving," snapped the marshal.
"A man speaks the truth when he's thataway," rebuked Billy. "I'm goingto see about this."
But the marshal blocked his way. "I told you----" he began.
"Get out of my way!" directed Billy, his gray eyes ablaze.
The marshal got. After all, he had no specific orders to prevent ameeting between Jack Murray and Billy Wingo. Let Jack look out forhimself. No doubt Rafe and sundry other of his friends would beannoyed, but it couldn't be helped. The marshal betook himselfhurriedly to the back room of the Freedom Saloon.
Billy, coldly purposeful, made a round of the saloons first. In noneof them did he find his man or news of him. Finally, from the stagecompany's hostler tending a cripple outside the company corral, helearned that Jack had left town.
"Which he went surging off down the Hillsville trail," said thehostler, "like he hadn't a minute to lose. He told me he was going toHillsville."
"Told you?" Surprisedly.
"Yes, told me, sure. 'If the marshal wants me,' says he, as he lopedpast, 'tell him I've gone to Hillsville.'"
Here was an odd thing. Jack Murray knew where he stood with the powersthat were and consequently knew that the marshal would not want him forthe shooting. Yet here was Jack Murray not only leaving town hastily,as though he feared capture, but taking pains to leave word where hewas going. The two facts did not fit. True, a gentleman seeking tomislead possible pursuers might lie as to where he was going. In whichcase such a gentleman would not take a trail like the Hillsvilletrail--a trail visible from Golden Bar for almost five miles in bothdirections. But if a person wished to be pursued----
"I think I can see his dust still," said the hostler helpfully,pointing toward the spot where the Hillsville trail entered a grove ofpines five miles out.
"I think I see it too," declared Billy grimly, and went hurriedly tothe hotel for his rifle and saddle.
Hazel Walton, jogging along the homeward way, was overtaken by ahorseman. He nodded and called, "'Lo," as he galloped by. Shereturned his greeting with careful courtesy. But she scowled and madea little face after his retreating back. She did not like Jack Murray.She never had. The man had repelled her from the moment she first seteyes on him.
It is human nature for one to take an interest in the movement of aperson one dislikes. Hazel wondered where Jack Murray was riding sofast. For it was a hot day. Her wonder grew when, twenty minutesafter he had passed from sight, she perceived by the hoofmarks that hehad left the trail and turned into a dry wash. She knew that the washled nowhere, that it was a blind alley, a cul-de-sac ending in arock-strewn, unclimbable slope that was the base of Block Mount
ain.This wash was a good two miles beyond where the trail entered the groveof pines five miles out of Golden Bar.
Beyond the wash the trail wound up the side of a hill. At the crest ofthe hill the off mule picked up a stone. Hazel set the brake, tied thereins to the felley of a wheel and jumped to the ground. The stone wasin a near fore, and jammed tight. After ten minutes hard hammering andlevering with her jackknife she had the stone out.
As she released the foot from between her knees and straightened herback, her gaze swept along the back trail. She saw only sections oftrail till it passed beyond the grove of pines five miles out of town.The grove was now three miles behind her. The wash into which JackMurray had ridden was distant not half a mile. The land on either sideof the wash had once been burnt over and had grown up in brush andscraggly jack pine.
Of the pines and spruce that had once covered the ground surroundingthe wash, but one tall gray stub remained. The eye of the beholder wasnaturally drawn to this salient characteristic of the landscape, Shesaw more than the stub. She saw Jack Murray's horse tied to its bole.There was something queer about the horse's head. Whereas JackMurray's horse when it passed her on the trail had been a sorrel of asolid color, the head was now whitey-gray.
Hazel was not of an abnormally inquisitive nature, but that a horse'shead should change color within the space of half an hour was enough tomake any one ask questions. Ever since she and her uncle had come torealize that some one was rustling their cattle, neither of them everleft home without field glasses. Hazel pulled her pair from beneaththe seat cushion and focused them on the odd-looking horse.
"Why, it's a flour sack over the horse's head!" she exclaimed. "Theysay a horse won't whinny if you cover his head. I wonder why Jackdoesn't want him to whinny. And _where_ is Jack?"
Two minutes later she found Jack. He was lying on his stomach in thebrush behind an outcrop. The outcrop overlooked the trail. Jack'srifle was poked out in front of him. It was only too obvious that Jackwas also overlooking the trail. Why?
A few minutes later that question was answered by the sudden appearanceof a rider at a bend of the trail a mile back. Jack Murray must haveglimpsed the rider at the same time, for Hazel saw him snuggle downlike a hare in its form, and alter slightly the position of his rifle,although the rider was not yet within accurate shooting range. With agasp she recognized the rider on the trail by his high-crowned whitehat: only one man in Golden Bar wore such a hat and that man was BillyWingo. Instantly she recalled what folks were saying of Jack Murraysince it had become positively known that the party nomination forsheriff had gone to Billy Wingo, that Jack Murray "had it in" forBilly, that he had made threats more or less vague, and that he hadtaken to brooding over his fancied wrongs. She realized that thethreats had crystallized into action, and that this was an ambush.
She knew that Billy would be masked by a certain belt of trees beforehe traveled another thirty yards, not to emerge into view again till hetopped a rise of ground about a thousand yards from the base of thehill on which she stood. It was a certainty that Jack would not risk ashot till his enemy had crossed the rise of ground. If Hazel couldonly reach the top of the rise first--
Hazel popped up into the seat of the buckboard as Billy reached thebelt of trees. It has been shown that Hazel Walton was a good driver,and she needed every atom of her skill to turn the buckboard in thenarrow trail without smashing a wheel against the rocks that someapparently malign agency had seen fit to strew about at that particularspot. The near mule, devil that he was, when he found that he was nolonger headed for home, stuck out his lower lip and front legs andbalked.
This was unwise of the near mule. He should have chosen a moreopportune moment. Hazel had no time to reason with him. She set herteeth, slacked the reins, opened her jack-knife and jabbed an inch anda half of the longer blade into the mule's swelling hip.
It is doubtful whether the recalcitrant mule ever moved faster in hislife. The forward spring he gave as the steel perforated his thickhide almost snapped the doubletree. Hazel, her toes hooked under theiron foot-rail, poured the leather into the off mule.
She made no attempt to guide her galloping team. She did not need to.She barely felt their mouths, but ever she kept her whip going, and themules laid their bellies to the ground and flew down that hill likefrightened jack rabbits. And like a rubber ball the buckboard bouncedbehind them.
Hazel knew that Jack Murray behind his outcrop must hear the thunder ofthe racing hoofs, the rattle of the swooping buckboard. Half-way downthe hill she lost her hat. Promptly every hairpin she possessed lostits grip and her hair came down. In a dark and rippling cloud itstreamed behind her.
"Keep your feet, mules!" she gritted through her locked teeth. "Keepyour feet, for God's sake!"
And they kept their footing among the rolling stones, or rather amerciful Providence kept it for them. For that hill was commonly ahill to be negotiated with careful regard to every bump and hollow.Hazel's life was in jeopardy every split second, but so was anotherlife, and it was of this other life she was thinking. Reach thatwhite-hatted rider she must before he came within thousand-yard rangeof the man behind the outcrop.
Within thousand-yard range, yes. Jack Murray's reputation with thelong arm was of territorial proportions. He had made in practice,hunting and open competition almost unbelievable scores. Givenanything like a fair shot, and it would be hard if he could not hit anobject the size of Billy Wingo. All this Hazel Walton knew, and herheart stood still at the thought. But she was of the breed that fightsto the last breath and a gasp beyond.
She breathed a little prayer, dropped her right hand on the reins aheadof her left and turned the team around the curve at the foot of thehill as neatly as any stage-driver could have done it. That they swunground on a single wheel did not matter in the least. Beyond the curveone of the front wheels struck a rock that lifted Hazel a foot in theair and shot every single package and the tarpaulin out of thebuckboard.
And now the road passed the wash and ran straight for more than half amile till it disappeared over the rise of ground. Throughout the wholedistance it was under the sharpshooting rifle of the man behind theoutcrop.
As she clung to the pitching buckboard and plied the whip, shespeculated on the probability of Jack Murray firing on her. He mustrealize her purpose. He had been called many things, but fool was notone of them. He might even shoot her. She recalled dim stories ofJack Murray's ruthlessness and grim singleness of purpose.
"Bound to get what he wants, no matter how," men had said of him.
Four hundred yards from the curve where the buckboard had so nearlyupset, a Winchester cracked in the rear. The near mule staggered,tried to turn a somersault, and collapsed in a heap of sprawling legsand outthrust neck. The off mule fell on top of his mate, and Hazelcatapulted over the dashboard and landed head first on top of the offmule.
The off mule regained his feet with a snort and a lurch, in the processthrowing Hazel into a squaw bush. Dizzy and more than a little shaken,that young woman scrambled back into the trail and feverishly set aboutunhitching the mule.
She heard a yell from the direction of the outcrop above the wash.Fingers busy with the breast-strap snap, she looked back to see a manhurdle the outcrop and plunge toward her through the brush.
"Wait!" he bawled. "Wait!"
Her reply to this command was to spring to the tail of the mule andshout to him to back. He backed. She twitched both trace cockeyes outof the singletree hooks (she was using the wagon harness that day)tossed the traces over the mule's back and ran round in front tounbuckle the dead mule's reins.
"Halt or I shoot!"
She giggled hysterically. How could she halt when she had not yetstarted? She freed the second billet, tore the reins through theterrets, and bunched the reins anyhow in her left hand. He was a tallmule, but she swarmed up his shoulder by means of collar and hames,threw herself across his withers and besought him at the top of herlungs t
o "Go! Go! Go!"
He went. He went as the saying is, like a bat out of hades. Hazelslipped tailward from the withers, settled herself with knees clinginghigh, and whanged him over the rump with the ends of the reins. Hehardly needed any encouragement. Her initial cry had been more thanenough.
The man in the brush stopped. He raised his rifle to his shoulder,looked through the sights at the galloping mule, then lowered thefirearm and uttered a heartfelt oath. It had at last been borne inupon his darkened soul that he possibly had made a mistake. Instead ofshooting the mule, in the first place, he might better haverelinquished his plan of ambush and gone his way in peace. There wereother places than Golden Bar, plenty of them, where an enterprisingyoung man could get along and bide his time to square accounts with hisenemy.
But the killing of the mule had fairly pushed the bridge over. It was,not to put a nice face on it, an attack on a woman. He might just aswell have shot Hazel--better, in fact. She had undoubtedly recognizedhim. Those Waltons both carried field glasses, he had heard.
"I'll get the mule anyhow," he muttered. "That'll put a crimp in her."
He dropped on one knee between two bushes, took a quick sight at themule's barrel six inches behind the girl's leg and pulled trigger.Over and over rolled the mule, and over and over a short foot inadvance of his kicking hoofs rolled Hazel. Luckily she was not stunnedand she rolled clear. She scrambled to her feet and set off up thetrail as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.
"Damn her!" cursed Jack Murray, notching up his back sight. "I'doughta drop her! She's askin' for it, the hussy!"
His itching finger trembled on the trigger, but he did not pull.Reluctantly, slowly, he lowered the Winchester and set the hammer onsafety. The drink was dying out in him. Against his will he renderedthe girl the tribute of unwilling admiration. "Whatsa use? She's gottoo much nerve; but maybe I can get him still."
On her part the girl pelted on up the rise, stumbled at the top andcame down heavily, tearing her dress, bruising her knees and thoroughlyscratching the palms of her hands. But she scrambled to her feet andwent on at a hobbling run, for she saw below her, rising the grade at asharp trot, the rider of the white hat.
Now she was waving her arms and trying to shout a warning, though hervoice stuck in her throat and she was unable to utter more than a lowcroak.
Billy Wingo pulled up at sight of the wild apparition that was HazelWalton. But the check was momentary. He clapped home the spurs andhustled his horse into a gallop. He and Hazel came together literally,forty yards below the crest. The girl seized his stirrup to saveherself from falling and burst into hysterical tears.
"Lordy, it's the girl that dropped the package!" exclaimed Billy,dismounting in haste.
He had his arm round her waist in time to prevent her falling to theground. She hung limply against him, and gasped and choked and sobbedaway her varied emotions.
"There, there," he said soothingly, patting her back and, it must besaid, marveling at the length and thickness and softness and shininessof her midnight hair. "It's all right. You're all right. You're allright. Nothing to worry about--not a-tall. You're safe. Don't cry.Tell me what's bothering you?"
And after a time, when she could speak coherently, she told him.
It was a disconnected narrative and spotty with gasps and gurgles, butBilly made no difficulty of comprehending her meaning. They who canconstruct history from hoofmarks in the dust do not require a clearexplanation.
When he had heard enough for a working diagram he plumped her downbehind a fortuitous stone and adjured her to lie there without moving,which order was superfluous. She did not want to get up again--ever.
Billy stepped to his horse, dragged the Winchester from the scabbardunder the near fender and trotted to the top of the rise. Arrived atthe crest, he dropped his hat and went forward crouchingly, his rifleat trail. Sheltering his long body behind bushes he dodgedzigzaggingly across the top of the ridge to an advantageous positionbehind a wild currant bush growing beside a jagged boulder.
He lay down behind the wild currant bush and surveyed the landscapeimmediately in front of him. At first he saw nothing--then two hundredyards away on his right front a sumac suddenly developed an amazinglythick shadow. He automatically drew a fine sight on that sumac.
The shadow of the sumac became thin. A dark objected flitted from itto another bush. The dark object was a man's head. It was hatless.Billy smiled and decided to wait. He understood that he was dealingwith a man who could shoot the buttons off his shirt, but on the otherhand, Billy did not think meanly of himself as a still hunter. He laymotionless behind the currant bush and watched Jack Murray's advance.
Billy smiled pityingly. It was obvious to him that Jack Murray hadnever been on a man hunt before. If he had he would have been morecareful.
"Good Gawd," Billy said to himself, "it's like taking candy from achild."
It was destined to be even more like taking candy from a child.
Four times before the bold Jack reached the crest of the hill heoffered Billy a target he couldn't miss. And each time the latterrefrained from shooting. Somehow he was finding it difficult to shootan unconscious mark. If Jack had been shooting at him or had even beenaware of his presence, it would have been different. But to shoot himnow was too much like cold-blooded murder. There was nothing of thebushwhacker in the Wingo make-up.
Suddenly at the top of the rise, Jack Murray ducked completely out ofsight.
"Must have seen the horse," thought Billy, and looked over hisshoulder. No, it was not the horse. Billy was on higher ground thanwas Jack and he could not see even the tips of his mount's ears.
"It can't be my hat he sees," Billy told himself.
Evidently it was the hat, for while Billy's eyes were on the hat, arifle cracked where Jack Murray lay hidden and the hat jumped andsettled.
"Good thing my head ain't inside," said the wholly delighted Billy, hiseyes riveted on the smoke shredding away above the bushes on the rightfront. "I wonder if he thinks he got me."
It was evident that Jack Murray was wondering too. For the crown of ahat appeared with Jack-in-the-box unexpectedness at the right side ofthe bush below the smoke. Experience told Billy that a stick waswithin the crown of the hat which moved so temptingly to and fro.
Three or four minutes later, Jack Murray's hat disappeared and therifle again spoke.
"Another hole in my hat," Billy muttered resignedly and cuddled hisrifle stock against his cheek. "He'll wave his hat again, and thenhe'll be about ready to go see if the deer is venison."
Even as he foretold, the hat appeared and was moved to and fro, andraised and lowered, in order to draw fire. Then, peace continuing tobrood over the countryside, the hat was crammed on the owner's head andthe owner, on hands and knees, headed through the brush toward Billy'shat.
Billy was of the opinion that Jack Murray's course would bring himwithin ten feet. He was right. Jack Murray passed so close that Billycould have reached forth his rifle and touched him with the muzzle.Instead he waited till Jack's back was fairly toward him before hesaid, "Hands up!"
Jack Murray possessed all the wisdom of his kind. He dropped his rifleand tossed up his hands.
"Stand up. No need to turn around," resumed Billy, Riley Tyler'ssix-shooter trained on the small of Jack's back. "Lower your left handslowly and work your belt down. You wear it loose. It'll drop easy.And while you're doing it, if you feel like gamblin' with me, rememberthat this is Riley's gun and I ain't used to it, and I might have toshoot you three or four times instead of only once, y' understand."
Obviously Jack Murray understood. He lowered his left hand and workedhis gun-belt loose and down over his hip bone with exemplary slowness.The shock of his capture had evaporated the last effects of the liquor.He was cold sober and beginning to perceive the supreme folly he hadcommitted in shooting a woman's mount from under her.
"One step ahead," directed Billy when the gun
-belt was on the ground."And up with that left hand."
Jack Murray, thumbs locked together over his head, stepped out of thegun-belt. Billy went to him, rammed the six-shooter muzzle against hisspine and patted him from top to toe in search of possible hide-outs.He found none except a pocket knife which did not cause himapprehension.
"Le's take up the thread of our discourse," said Billy, "farther downthe hill. Walk along, cowboy, walk along."
With Billy carrying both rifles and Jack's discarded gun-belt, theywalked along downhill to where Billy's pony stood in a three-cornereddoze. It was then that Jack Murray caught sight of Hazel Walton lyingon her back behind a stone, her arms over her face. She lookedextremely limp and lifeless.
"I didn't shoot her!" cried the startled Jack.
"I know you didn't," said Billy. "The lady's restin', that's all.We'll wait till she feels like moving."
Hazel Walton uncovered her face. There was a large and purpling lumpin the middle of her forehead, the skin of her pretty nose wasscratched, a bruise defaced one cheek bone, and one eye was slightlyblack.
"Your work, you polecat," Billy declared succinctly. "You'll belynched for mauling her like that."
But Hazel Walton was just. She sat up, supporting herself by an arm,and dispelled Billy's false impression. "He never touched me--and hecould have shot me if he'd wanted to."
"So kind of him not to," said Billy with sarcasm. "Who is responsiblefor hurting you? Your face is bruises all over."
"Is it?" she said, with an indifference born of great weariness. "Isuppose it must be. I remember I struck on my face when he shot themule I was riding. He--he shot both mules."
"He'll be lynched for that, then," Billy said decisively.
"Who'll pay for the mules?" Hazel wished to know. "We needed thosemules," she added.
Billy nodded. "That's so. If he's lynched for this attack onyou--your mules--same thing if you know what I mean--you lose out onthe mules. Maybe we can fix it up."
"Sure we can," Jack Murray spoke up briskly.
"I'm not talkin' to you," pointed out Billy. "Whatever fixing up thereis to do, I'll do it. You have done about all the fixing you're gonnado for one while. Yeah. I came out after you, Jack, to make you abetter boy, but now that we got you where you'll stand withouthitching, I can't do it. I ain't got the heart. Of course, if youwere to jump at me or something, or make a dive for your gun I'mholding, I don't say but I'd change my mind in a hurry. I kind of wishyou had seen me back there a-lying under my currant bush. Then we'dhave had it out by this time, and I'd be going back to town for ashovel."
"Don't you be too sure of that," snarled Jack Murray. "Just you gimmemy gun back, and I'll show you something."
"I'll bet you would," acquiesced Billy, "but I'm keeping your guns,both of 'em. I'd feel too lonesome without 'em."
"Can't you do nothing but flap your jaw?" demanded Jack in a huff."I'd just as soon be downed outright as talked to death."
"But you haven't any choice in the deal," Billy told him in mildsurprise. "Not a choice. You shut up. I'll figure out what to dowith you. Y'understand, Jack, I've got to be fair to Miss Walton too.If you're lynched she won't get paid for her team, and I can't have herlosin' a fine team of mules thisaway and not have a dime to show forit. That would never do. Never. Lessee now. You got any money,Jack?"
"A little."
"How much?"
"Maybe ten or twelve dollars."
"Maybe you've got more. You know you never were good at figures.Lemme look."
He looked. From one of Jack Murray's hip pockets he withdrew a plumpleather poke that gave forth a jingling sound. A search of the innerpocket of the vest produced a thin roll of greenbacks. But the billswere all of large denominations.
"There," said Billy, "I knew you'd made a mistake in addition, Jack.You count what's here, Miss Walton."
He tossed the greenbacks and the heavy poke into the lap of the girlwho was now sitting up cross-legged, her back against the rock.
"Sixteen hundred and twelve dollars and sixty-five cents," announcedHazel a few minutes later.
"How much did your mules cost?" queried Billy.
"Five hundred and a quarter the team," was the prompt reply.
"Call it six hundred," said Billy briskly. "It's only right for you totake something at an auction thisaway. Strip off six hundred dollarsworth of greenbacks and put them in your pocket."
"Oh, I wouldn't feel right about taking more than the regular price,"demurred Hazel.
"No reason why you shouldn't. No reason a-tall. Jack's only payingyou for the damage he did. He's glad to pay. Ain't you, Jack?"
"I suppose so," grunted Jack.
"There, you see. Your uncle would want you to. I know he would. Infact, he'd be a heap put out if you didn't. Those bumps of your's now.What do you say to one hundred wheels a bump? You got three bumps anda scratched nose. Which last counts as a bump. In round numbers thatmakes four hundred dollars. One thousand dollars to you, Miss Walton."
"Here!" cried the outraged Jack Murray. "You're robbin' me! You'retakin' every nickel I got!"
"No, I ain't," denied Billy, "and don't go and get excited and putthose hands down. Don't you, now. About that money--the worst is yetto come. Young Riley Tyler not being here to assess his own damages,I'll assess 'em for him. You put three holes in Riley. Call it twohundred dollars a hole. That makes six hundred dollars. Just put thatsix hundred in a separate pile for Riley, Miss Walton."
"I don't mind the man paying for the mules," said Miss Walton firmly,"but I can't take any money for my scratch or two."
Billy looked at her, decided she meant it and said:
"All right, put that four hundred with Riley's six. Riley won't mind."
"But I do!" shouted Jack Murray, his arms quivering with rage. "Youcan't rob me thisaway. By Gawd----"
"Now, now," Billy cut in sharply, "no swearing. You forget MissWalton. You're right about the money, though. I can't rob you. MissWalton, dump all that money back in the poke and hand it to him. Hewants to go back to Golden Bar and be lynched."
"I got friends in Golden Bar," blustered the prisoner.
"None of 'em will be your friends after I tell 'em what you did to MissWalton, Jack. There's a prejudice in this country against hurting awoman. Folks don't like it. Aw right, get a-going, feller. No, theother way--toward Golden Bar."
A hearty groan wrenched itself from the depths of Murray's being."Uncle! Uncle!" he cried angrily. "Have it your own way. I don'twant to go to the Bar. Take all my money and be done with it."
"I wouldn't think of such a thing," declared Billy, "though it wouldn'tbe any more than right if I did. You're getting off too easy. You'lllive to be hung yet, I'm afraid, but I can't just see my way to downingyou now and here. No, you divide the money again, Miss Walton. Sixhundred for you, a thousand for Riley and twelve dollars and sixty-fivecents tobacco money for this gentleman.-- Don't bother reaching forthe money, Jack. I'll put it in your pocket. There you are. Now,Miss Walton, if you'll wait here while I get this citizen started--You've got a horse somewhere, I expect, Jack. Lead the way."
"Oh, sure I saw him off all right. I don't guess he'll be back for awhile--not if he has brains. You know, I owe you a lot, Miss Walton.You did the bravest thing I ever knew a man or woman to do. Yougambled your life to save mine. You might have been killed, you knowit? And after me getting fresh there in the street, I dunno what tosay, I don't."
He knew that he was talking too much. But in the reaction that had setin he was so embarrassed that it hurt.
"Yeah!" he gabbled on, red to the ears, "you certainly are a wonder.I--uh--I guess we better be getting back to town. You feel able toride now? My horse is gentle. Besides, I'll lead him."
It was then that reaction set in for Hazel Walton. As the strain onher nerves eased off, everything went black before her eyes and shekeeled over sidewise in a dead faint.
&nb
sp;
The Rider of Golden Bar Page 4