Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  He approached the bed. Sloan lay dressed, except for his boots, and his boyish face was ghastly of hue. Kalispel had seen the shade of death too many times not to recognize it here. But prepared as he was for the worst, the actual presence of fatality, the pity of it, the raw evil, sent the freezing cold to his marrow.

  “Pard,” whispered Sloan, faintly. “Ruth — will — tell you.”

  Kalispel took the boy’s limp, clammy hand.

  “Dick, it shore breaks my heart to see you this way,” returned Kalispel, huskily. “But don’t give up. You might pull through.”

  Sloan’s singularly intense blue eyes appeared to burn with a fire not for himself. Kalispel found them shockingly sad to gaze into.

  “Kal, would it be — askin’ too much of you — to take care of Ruth?”

  “It shore would not.”

  “She has no — other friend....You saved her...

  “I’ll take care of her, Dick,” interrupted Kalispel, squeezing the cold hand “Thanks, pard,” Sloan said, more clearly, with passionate gratitude. “Thet was makin’ — me hold on...

  “Don’t talk. Only give me a hunch. You told Ruth all you know?”

  “Yes,” replied Sloan, appearing to rally as he reached weakly for the girl. Quickly she took his hand in hers, and kneeling pressed it to her breast. “Ruth — thet horrible fear — is gone.... Kal will look after you.... Some day...

  “Dick, I would never have gone back,” she interposed, softly. “You must not talk so much. It’d bring on another hemorrhage.... Rest, and fight the thing, Dick. While there’s hope.”

  He smiled faintly, as one who knew and was relieved, and closed his eyes wearily. A trace of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. Ruth wiped it away. He lay still, breathing slowly.

  After a few moments Ruth released his hand and stood up. Kalispel found that Dick had let go of him. Then Kalispel drew the girl away. At that juncture Masters entered and went up to Sloan’s bed to gaze silently down, shaking his lean head. He turned then to whisper:

  “We cain’t do nothin’. Shore you got his deposition?”

  “Ruth did. Masters, you take these folks out an’ leave me alone with her.”

  When the Texan had complied, Kalispel turned to Ruth. She was pale but composed, and outside of a hunted expression in her blue eyes betrayed no other marked evidence of emotion. As he looked down upon her, however, she took hold of his gun-sheath and clung to it, a wholly unconscious action.

  “Nug — Ruth, are you up to talkin’ now?” he asked, earnestly.

  “Yes.”

  “Who do you think is back of it?”

  “Borden.”

  “Why?”

  “Two days straight running he has been here. Last time I had to fight to keep him from packing me off. I kicked and bit and screamed. He went out to run into our neighbors, who’d heard me. When I heard him lie to them I went out, too, and told the truth. Called him I don’t know what, right before them. Then he left, white with rage.... I know he is behind this attack on poor Dick.”

  “Yet he might not be.”

  “I feel it. A woman never makes a mistake when she feels that way.”

  “I feel it, too. But, Ruth, we must have facts. These miners are in an ugly mood. Did you know Leavitt has organized a vigilante band of his own, with himself as leader?”

  “No. I hadn’t heard.”

  “Wal, it’s true. An’ it’s bad news. I reckoned he an’ Borden had split. But so far as I’m concerned he’d take Borden’s side. I must have facts.”

  “Kal, I have facts as to Dick’s assailants, but I can’t connect Borden with them.”

  “Uh-huh. All right, you might as well tell me now.”

  “Dick left early this morning,” she began, swiftly and intelligently, “to work his new claim. He hired Presbry, a neighbor miner, to work this claim here, on shares. It is about panned out. Dick’s new claim is way across the valley, up high, among the rocks and brush. I’ve been there. It is hard to get to.... Well, I don’t know how long ago — two hours, maybe, men came packing Dick in here, all bloody and dirty, terrible to see. He had been stabbed in the back and beaten over the head. While we worked over him as best we could he talked.... He found that his new claim had been jumped. There were three men, one of them digging. Dick had seen him before, but did not know him. They seemed friendly at first, as if he ought to take it for granted they had a right to jump his claim. But as Dick had visited that claim every day, he did not agree with them. They argued, and finally Dick got sore. He jumped in the hole to throw the man out. Then began a fight, in which the other men joined. In the scuffle one of them called out: ‘Don’t shoot! You might hit Mac!’... This man in the hole, then, was the one named Mac. Dick said he had a stubby red beard and a bloody patch pasted over a recent wound just above his ear. One of the two above stabbed Dick in the back. The blade went clear through in front. Then they beat him over the head. When Dick came to he was alone. They had no doubt left him for dead. He walked and crawled within call of the miners who carried him home — and that’s all, I think.”

  “Did they rob him?”

  “Oh, I forgot. Yes, his watch, gun, money, everything was taken. And his pockets turned inside out.”

  “Pretty slick. Robbery motive, eh? Wal, we know enough. Ruth, that fellow Mac is one of Leavitt’s trusted guards. An’ I made that wound on his head.... Why in hell didn’t I kill him while I was about it?”

  “Let him go, Kal.... Let them all go!” she begged, suddenly changing from the calm, cold girl who had related Sloan’s story. Her eyes turned a darker, stranger blue. Nervous hands pulled at the lapels of Kalispel’s vest.

  “Ruth, you ask that?” he queried, in surprise.

  “Yes. I implore it.”

  “I reckoned you knew me.”

  “I do. But it’s too late to save Dick. And even if you are Kalispel Emerson you might get killed.”

  “Shore. Only that’s not the way to meet this situation. If I showed yellow I’d stand a heap more chance of cashin’. Besides, Borden would get you shore.”

  “Not alive!” she flashed.

  “Ah-huh. There you’re admittin’ the weakness of your argument to let these skunks off. Can’t you see that, girl?”

  “We could leave Thunder City as soon — as—” she faltered. “Kal, can’t you see something, too?”

  “I see a lot, Ruth. An’ the biggest thing is for me to go on the rampage. Borden an’ Leavitt are white livered, an’ their men are not the real stuff. They shoot in the dark an’ knife in the back. I’m goin’ to wipe out some of them an’ scare the rest of them stiffer’n a crowbar. That, with the proofs I have, will wake up these miners. Masters is on our side. He’s a crafty Texan an’ he shore smells a rat.”

  “Oh, Kal — suppose—” she choked, and after one terrible gaze into his face she sank against him, quivering.

  Kalispel held her, suddenly troubled with the memory of Sydney’s statement about this girl. That was scarcely credible. Yet — Ruth drew away from him. To his surprise and admiration, all trace of weakness had vanished. She was of different caliber from Sydney Blair, not built of the same stuff.

  “You know best, Kal,” she said, with composure. “It is not for me to try to stay your hand.... Go — and don’t worry about me.”

  “That’s the way to talk, Ruth,” he rejoined, hiding his own feeling. “Looks like Dick is unconscious. Reckon he won’t come to again. An’ that’s just as well, seein’ he’s done for.... Ruth, don’t worry now about me.”

  “I’d hate to be in Borden’s boots,” she replied, lightly, and went to Sloan’s bedside.

  Kalispel strode out slowly, gazing back at Ruth. There was a girl who understood a man. Once out of the door, he was himself again. Masters stood outside, talking to the couple. The crowd, except for a few groups, had dispersed.

  “Folks, go inside an’ stay with Ruth,” begged Kalispel. “Masters, you come with me.”

  They had
crossed the bridge and reached the main street when the Texan broke the strained silence.

  “Younsster, you’re aimin’ to play a lone hand?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Wal, I calculate I’d back you up,” returned the other, deliberately.

  “Masters, I’d be most damned glad to have you line up with me on this deal,” said Kalispel, forcefully, as he gratefully squeezed the sheriff’s arm. “But if I got in deep an’ dragged you in, why, you might not be left to look after your friends. An’ believe me, if we got bored, they’d shore need it.”

  “Emerson, you’re hintin’ of a Henry Plummer outfit. An’ I reckon thet’s far-fetched. Neither Leavitt or Borden air Plummer’s caliber. An’ the rest of this gang air four-flushers.”

  “My idea, too. But this gang may be bigger than I’ve figured.”

  “No matter. Without leaders they’d wilt like yellow paper in a blaze. I’ve sized up every man in this camp. An’ you’re the only hombre heah I’d be leary of. It wasn’t because I was afraid of you that I offered to back you.”

  “Fine. That’s like a stiff drink, which I needed. The only thing I’m leary about is bein’ picked from some door or window.”

  “Wal, thet’s not liable to happen if I hang close to you. At the same time it’ll show this outfit thet there’s something damned onsartin’ in the wind.”

  They had halted just short of the corner to conclude this conversation.

  “Look for a stocky man with a stubby red beard an’ a bloody patch over his ear.... An’ let me see. It’d be his right ear, thet’s shore.”

  “Must have put thet patch there yourself,” was the deduction of the shrewd sheriff.

  “They call him Mac,” said Kalispel. “I can’t describe him, more n that. But I’ll shore know his shape when I spot it.”

  In the town there was no indication that the killing of Sloan had become the latest news. But talking and walking miners, and other inhabitants of Thunder City, were not slow to take cognizance of Bruce Masters and Kalispel stalking up the street.

  “Hey!” called one excited observer. “Looks like Sheriff Masters has arrested thet gunman.”

  “Not to me, it doesn’t,” replied another.

  They entered the Dead Eye Saloon. It was blue with smoke and noisy with voices.

  “Say, crowd,” shouted Kalispel, piercingly, and when the hum ceased and all faces turned, he continued: “I’m lookin’ hard for a man with a stubby red beard an’ a patch over his right ear where he got slugged recently. He answers to the name Mac.”

  Every man present, even the card-players, looked at his neighbors. Then a bartender set down a glass with a nervous clang.

  “Boss, nobody in hyar who answers to thet,” he called. Kalispel led the way out, and he heard the buzz that arose behind him.

  “Reminds me of bein’ in Texas,” drawled Masters, with a chuckle.

  “What does?”

  “Why you, boy.”

  Kalispel merely glanced into the stores. But he went into the Gold Dust Saloon, the Elk, the Bonanza, the Thunder Boom, all the resorts on the right side of the street, in each of which he interrupted gayety to spread silence and consternation. But he did not find his man. By this time a crowd followed at a respectful distance and the whole tenor of the main street had changed as if by magic.

  “Wal, Kalispel,” said the Texan, as they crossed the street at the extreme east end of town, “nobody figgerin’ now thet you air under arrest.”

  “Reckon we have them guessin’.”

  “None of these men will meet you for an even break.”

  “Don’t expect it, Masters.”

  “Looks like you’d have to hole them up. An’ when you’re outside of a barricaded cabin, up ag’in’ shotguns an’ rifles, it gets testier’n hell. As a Ranger I had a lot of thet.”

  They faced downstreet on the right side, passing the blacksmith shop, some closed tents, and a merchandise store. As far down as Kalispel could see men were gazing in his direction, and not a few of their number were taking to the middle of the street. In the Red Likker Saloon Kalispel’s ringing challenge elicited a reply from some one in the crowd.

  “What you want Mac fer?”

  “He an’ his pards jumped Dick Sloan’s claim.”

  “Wal, thet ain’t sayin’ what you want,” replied the gruff voice.

  “Sloan’s dyin’!”

  Kalispel advanced upon the group before the bar and ordered them to spread out. His swift scrutiny failed to locate a man with a stubby red beard. He backed out of the saloon, keenly aware of hostile looks. On down the street he went, searching in the places where miners congregated. Opposite the Dead Eye Saloon Kalispel espied a tall bearded man who strode across in a manner to excite a second glance. Kalispel knew him as a friend, a neighbor of Blair’s.

  “Shore you’re lookin’ at this fellar?” inquired Masters. The miner came on without slacking his pace or betraying any sign that he recognized Kalispel. But as he passed he shot out low-voiced: “Your man’s been tipped off.... Dead Eye Saloon!”

  Kalispel halted.

  “Heah thet?” queried Masters, sharply. “I reckon I’ll stand aside now, Emerson.”

  It was a hundred long steps or more diagonally across the street to the Dead Eye Saloon. When the Texan moved on a little way and then faced about, it appeared to be a signal for every man in sight of Kalispel to halt. Various comments carried to Kalispel’s sensitive ears.

  “There! Masters has shied away,” said one, in hoarse excitement.

  “He ain’t drunk this time, shore.”

  “Who’s he after?”

  “He’s watching the Dead Eye.”

  “Gentlemen, the ball is about to open.”

  “We’ll be duckin’ lead pronto.”

  For these observers the stage had been set for the familiar street-scene drama of the frontier. But in Thunder City there had been few indeed of these duels.

  Kalispel cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Somebody tell Sneed to drive Mac an’ his pards out — or I’ll burn ’em out.”

  A man shouted into the door of the Dead Eye. If Sneed did not comply, Kalispel would take his failure as inimical to himself. He counted, however, on the fact that the creed of the West was for men to meet in the open and decide their disputes without risk to spectators.

  Bill Sneed appeared, opening wide the swinging doors of his saloon.

  “Git out!” he bellowed. “I ain’t harborin’ ye, by Gawd!” Two white-faced men sneaked out, followed by a third, whose sombrero, pulled low, failed to hide the betraying red beard. The first slipped like an eel into the backing throng. The others dashed into the street, sheering widely to the left.

  “Stop!” yelled Kalispel, and he shot at the foremost runner. The bullet kicked up the dust beyond and whined away. But it had hit the runner, for there was a violent break in his swift action. Kalispel’s second shot, aimed low, brought the last man down in the middle of the street. He screamed with pain and terror. Like a crippled fowl he flopped, attempted to get to his feet again, but fell, screaming all the time. Then as Kalispel leaped forward into the street the man raised himself from the hips and pulled his gun, to fire rapidly. The bullets splintered glass and thudded on wood, and caused a rush of onlookers to get out of range. Kalispel plunged to a halt and shot to kill. His adversary spun around and went down, while his gun slid in the dust. Again Kalispel leaped forward to his prostrate foe, glad to find him alive. The second bullet had taken him high up in the breast, from which the blood was pouring.

  “Howdy, Mac,” called Kalispel, grimly, as he stood over him with smoking gun. The black sombrero lay in the dust and Kalispel had needed no more to recognize his man.

  “Masters, come here an’ bring somebody,” yelled Kalispel to the sheriff. Then he bent his gaze upon the claim-jumper. “Sloan marked you, Mac.”

  “Is he — daid?” queried Mac, hoarsely. His eyes foiled furtively.

  “I reckon,
by this time.”

  “Don’t kill me — Emerson.... I’ll talk.”

  Masters came hurriedly up, accompanied by two miners. “Winged, eh? — Make him squeal, Kal,” he said, stridently. “Mac, I reckon you won’t cash if you don’t get bored again,” added Kalispel, deliberately aligning his gun at the fallen man’s heart. “Talk — or I’ll bore you again!”

  “Fer Gawd’s sake, Emerson!... I didn’t knife Sloan — or slug him, either.... I was for robbin’ an’ kidnappin’ him — so Borden could get — Nugget!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Like wildfire the news spread up and down the main street of Thunder City that Macabe, one of Leavitt’s guards, had confessed having been forced by Borden to put young Sloan out of the way. Rumor ran as fast as men could walk and their tongues could wag. The motive for the crime — to waylay and kill an honest young miner for the purpose of dragging his sweetheart to the dance-hall den, and to a life of drink and violence — that inflamed the populace to an increasingly dangerous degree.

  Kalispel patrolled the center of the wide street, the cynosure of all eyes. The tide had turned his way. The creed of the frontier would force Borden to meet him.

  Sunset was still several hours away. Kalispel’s beat covered the lower end of town, just out of rifle-range from Borden’s place. Borden had been located at once and informed of Macabe’s confession, and that there was a man waiting for him out in the street.

  Toward midaftemoon business, except that of drinking, ceased for the day. Everybody wanted to see the encounter between Kalispel and Borden. If there were exceptions, they were Leavitt and his men up at the mine. They had been told. And later the news flashed around, from the very messengers who carried it, that Leavitt had refused to protect Borden from Emerson. “Tell the girl-snatcher to go out and take his medicine!” was Leavitt’s coarse reply to that appeal. Gossip quickly added the fact of Leavitt’s half interest in Borden’s property, and that the mine-owner would not be unhappy to take over Borden’s half. The lower end of the street was deserted except for Kalispel’s solitary form, pacing to and fro, or standing motionless and menacing. The throng, drinking more and more, gradually succumbed to the mob feeling, so easily aroused in crude men at such an hour. Kalispel’s status rose to that of a chivalrous and admirable man, while Borden was labeled a trafficker in women.