Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Presently Lincoln stood up and began to undress. He wanted sleep and rest in order to have a clear brain and steady nerve for tomorrow’s crucial problems. Before he went to sleep, however, he worked out in his mind the needed details: he must see Miller first, try to force him to disclose his guilty knowledge if there was time, then if he was satisfied in his mind that the cowboy was implicated in Jim Weston’s murder, it was just a question of beating Miller to his gun. That was the last resolve Bradway kept in his consciousness before he lost himself in slumber.

  He slept rather late, remaining in bed until the sun was high. He dressed slowly and went out for his breakfast in the small dining room connected with the hotel. The slowness of the service suited Lincoln’s plans. During the meal he occupied himself with a newspaper from behind which he occasionally peered when he heard a footstep. He made a leisurely meal of it. Several other customers came in but paid no attention to him. At ten o’clock sharp Sheriff Haught entered and immediately approached the lounging Nebraskan.

  “Mawnin’, cowboy,” said the Texan cheerfully, as he seated himself.

  “Howdy, Sheriff. I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”

  “Wal, the stage is all set.”

  “Yes? Then you’ve seen Miller.”

  “Thet’s the truth.”

  “Is he rarin’ around town looking for me?”

  “Thet’s how I figured, but it didn’t turn out thet way. Miller is at the hotel, clean-shaven, sober as ice, and none the worse for wear. I had the luck to see him with Kit Bandon just a little while ago. They were havin’ a hot argument. My hunch is thet Bandon was not persuadin’ him to avoid you. It might have been the other way around. I stopped on the stairway to light a cigar and stayed there as long as I dared hopin’ to hear somethin’ interestin’. Later I passed Miller in the lobby. He was as het up as a wild stallion at the sight of his first rope. I saw him pace up and down the lobby and every little bit go out into the street. He’s lookin’ for you, or my name ain’t Haught.”

  “Then he won’t have to wait long,” replied Lincoln, curtly rising from the table. “Sheriff, I’m mightily obliged to you.”

  “Not at all. All I want is for you to have an even break. Now you walk up on the other side of the street and keep your eyes peeled. I’ll be hangin’ around thet hotel corner and if there’s any need to give you a tip I’ll do it. Wait a few minutes after I’ve gone and then you follow. I don’t have to tell you what you’re up against.”

  The sheriff turned on his heel and left the dining room. Lincoln ordered another cup of coffee but did not drink it. Presently he arose, gave the waiter a bill and went out. It was a beautiful sunny morning, clear and crisp; many people already were about; several wagons creaked down the street between groups of mounted horsemen. The Nebraskan crossed to the other side and headed east toward the principal hotel. This was the main thoroughfare. It was a long block up to the hotel. He kept close to the buildings; the presence of the pedestrians, he concluded, being enough of a screen to prevent his being seen before he reached the corner. Here he halted and removed his long frock coat, draping it over his left arm. Passers-by stopped, turned to stare at him in mild amazement. There were several loungers standing outside of the hotel and Lincoln could see that the lobby was filled with people. Something drew his gaze up to an open window in the second story of the hotel. Standing back from the opening he could see Kit Bandon, tense and expectant, her dark eyes fixed on the street below. Quickly Bradway lowered his eyes to the sidewalk. At that moment Miller emerged from the hotel. His advent was a signal for several men to bolt from the building by a side entrance. Evidently Miller had spied Lincoln from inside the hotel.

  Holding his hands low and away from his hips, the cowboy slowly descended the steps and continued even more deliberately across the street. With a slight movement with his right hand he motioned Linc off the sidewalk. This slight action and the way Miller wore his gun convinced the Nebraskan that he was left- handed. Dropping his coat over a railing Lincoln edged sideways into the street facing the cowboy. Miller was cautious, yet bold: evidently he was not going to make a hasty issue of this meeting. He appeared to be as curious about the situation as Lincoln.

  They were still the width of the side street apart. Warily they crossed the dusty street almost as far as the railroad park. Miller was the first to stop. Lincoln immediately halted in his tracks. The two men were about twenty steps apart. Linc welcomed the chance for a close scrutiny of his antagonist’s face.

  “The deal’s on, cowboy,” said Miller in a voice that sounded strained and high-pitched, “but I’m sure curious. Where are you from?”

  “Nebraska. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not a damn thing,” flashed Miller.... “You another one of this woman’s maverick hunters?”

  “Not on your life,” retorted Lincoln.

  “She told me you were.”

  “She lied.”

  “She said she was going to marry you.”

  “I can’t help what she thinks. Maybe she doesn’t know that I’ve got a wife.”

  “Makin’ up to Kit — playin’ with Lucy — and all the time you’re married?”

  “It might look like that but you’re wrong. That all you want to say to me?”

  “I don’t savvy your game.”

  “You will pronto.”

  Miller betrayed an intense anger that could have been inspired and inflamed only by the Bandon woman.

  But despite the anger and violent emotion that blazed in the cowboy’s face, Linc could see that Miller was consumed with an intense curiosity. And he recognized that this was the moment: the advantage was his. He could break this hard cowboy’s nerve. Quickly he said, “Kit couldn’t have meant what she doesn’t know — that Lucy is my wife!”

  For an instant Miller seemed incapable of speech. Then he roared hoarsely, “I don’t believe it!” He forgot completely that he had challenged a man to a gun duel. He shook his head bewilderedly. He turned back to look at the hotel. Then he muttered:

  “That accounts for it. Lucy didn’t act like herself. But, hell, stranger, Kit Bandon said—”

  “Wrong, Miller,” interrupted Linc. “That is not what Kit Bandon meant.”

  “Hell’s fire, man, what else?”

  “I’m Jimmy Weston’s friend. That’s what brought me to Wyoming.”

  “Wha — at! The hell you say!”

  “I know, Miller, that you hauled him away from Kit Bandon’s ranch alive or dead.”

  “Not alive — dead!” burst out Miller as he jerked for his gun.

  Lincoln saw over the spouting flame of his own weapon the belching red of Miller’s, but the Nebraskan’s bullet reached its mark a fraction of a second before Miller’s. Then a stunning blow high up on his body staggered Lincoln; a searing pain ran through his shoulder.

  Miller’s gun dropped and his lax arm fell to his side. A blank look slowly spread over the face which a moment before had worn a grimace of bitter hatred, and he fell face forward to lay still on the hard-packed dirt of the street.

  Lincoln took several steps toward the fallen man waiting for some sign of movement. There was none. He heard loud voices and the footsteps of running men; then suddenly dizzy and blind he wavered to his knees, but he did not fall or lose consciousness. He heard a woman’s piercing scream; then someone laid hands upon him and helped him to his feet. As his mind cleared momentarily he saw that Sheriff Haught was supporting him.

  “Are you bad hurt, Bradway?” asked the sheriff.

  “I don’t — know. I guess not,” replied Lincoln, haltingly.

  The sheriff took his gun. There were men bending over Miller who manifestly was stone dead.

  “Where did he hit you?” asked the sheriff.

  “Somewhere — high up.”

  “Do you taste any blood?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Here, let’s see,” said Haught, tearing at Lincoln’s shirt. Blood was running
down Lincoln’s left breast. Haught felt the bullet hole, from which blood was slowly seeping.

  “Not bad. Too high to catch the lung,” he said with relief.

  The sheriff folded a scarf and placed it on Lincoln’s shoulder.

  “It was a narrow shave, Bradway.... Here, somebody help me with him,” he said to the bystanders.

  A citizen came to the other side of Linc and supported him. A third followed with the wounded man’s coat. They walked, half carrying him across the street. At that instant Kit Bandon came running down the steps, lips parted, her eyes wide and dark, her face expressing fear and concern. She stopped before the trio and looked searchingly into Bradway’s drawn face.

  “Is — is it bad, Lincoln?” she whispered huskily.

  “It’s — it’s — nothing,” he replied faintly.

  “Miss Bandon, he’s all right,” said the sheriff. “I’ll take him down to my place and call the doctor.”

  She moved along with him and the crowd followed. In some way she had been able to get hold of one of his hands. By the time they had gone half a block or more Lincoln began to feel that consciousness was slipping away from him. Before everything went completely black, he felt himself being lifted and carried.

  When he recovered consciousness he found himself on a couch in a stone-walled room with barred windows. Someone was working over him. He smelled strong antiseptics. Someone he recognized to be Kit sat on the other side of the bed watching him anxiously. Sheriff Haught, with his coat off and sleeves rolled up, evidently was helping the doctor.

  “How is it, Doc?” he heard Haught ask.

  “Clean as a whistle,” replied the doctor. “Went clear through. Never touched the collar bone.”

  Kit stood up and laid her cool hand on the wounded man’s forehead. “Are you in much pain?” she asked.

  Linc shook his head. His eyes seemed to be searching the room for someone.

  “Where’s Lucy?” he whispered.

  Kit Bandon did not reply.

  “Doc, how about giving him a slug of whisky?” asked Haught.

  “It might be a good idea. Got any handy?”

  They lifted Bradway’s head and helped him to drink. He felt liquor surging through his numb body. He tried to sit up. Kit sprang to place a pillow under his injured shoulder.

  “Now, Kit,” said the sheriff. “He’s all right.... Mustn’t be excited. I think you had better leave him with me. My housekeeper and I will take turns keeping watch over him.”

  “Of course I will go,” said the Bandon woman, “but you must keep me posted on how he is.”

  She bent over the Nebraskan and kissed him on the forehead. “You’re all right, Linc. Lie still and bear it.” Then she hurried out.

  Haught began carefully to remove the injured man’s boots. They had cut away the bloody top of his shirt. In a few moments the doctor had finished his bandaging.

  “Did it hurt?” he asked the cowboy.

  “When you stuck that thing through — it sure did.”

  The doctor rose and went into a little anteroom where Linc could hear him washing his hands in a sink.

  “Sheriff,” he called, “I’ll look in tonight unless you send for me before that. I don’t anticipate any aftereffects. He’ll be up in three days walking around. This youngster could stand half a dozen bullet holes like that. Keep him quiet. I’ll leave something for you to give him if he gets restless.”

  He returned to pick up his coat and put it on, then packed his instruments and medicines. Sheriff Haught stood looking down upon the cowboy with a smile.

  “I sure was scared, Bradway. Must be gettin’ chicken-hearted about gunfire. I’ve seen a deal of fightin’, but there was somethin’ different about this — must have been the women.... Miller was one mean hombre. If I’d known how fast you were with a gun I wouldn’t have been as concerned. Curious about him, Bradway?”

  Lincoln shook his head faintly. He fastened somber eyes upon the sheriff.

  “You beat him to it, but not very much. Your bullet took him right in the center of the left vest pocket and it was a right good job. All the same I had to arrest you.”

  “Then I’m — in jail?” asked Lincoln.

  “Sure are, but we’ll call it a hospital.”

  “Could — could I send a message to my — to Miss Bandon at the hotel?” he asked.

  His eyes fell shut and he could not distinguish what the sheriff was saying. Presently he slipped into a stupor. When he awakened after a while, he became aware of a throbbing pain. He heard footsteps now and then and low voices. Evidently the afternoon was waning, for the room slowly darkened. He became aware that a comely Mexican woman was watching over him. When he asked in a whisper for water, she gave him a drink from a tin dipper. Then she lighted a lamp on the table back of his bed. Soon afterward he was visited by the doctor and Haught. After a cursory examination the doctor said, “I reckon you’ll have some pain tonight, Bradway, but I’m not going to give you anything to put you to sleep.”

  “How about anything to eat or drink?” asked Haught.

  “He can have water, of course. The only thing to watch is restlessness or possibly a delirious spell in which case we wouldn’t want him to wrestle about.”

  The doctor bade them good night and Haught dismissed the woman.

  “Bradway, go to sleep if you can. I’ll read and take catnaps until Marie calls me.”

  The Nebraskan had been wounded more than once and a good deal more seriously than this. The pain and the feverishness were not unbearable, but what he dreaded was that grim black reaction that inevitably followed taking a man’s life in anger. He forced his thoughts from the realization that he had killed a man. How would Lucy feel? Once she had called him a killer. Why did Lucy not come to see him? Kit had come. Was Kit keeping his wife from coming? He fell into a fitful sleep, but was awake near midnight, when the woman came in to relieve Haught. Those wakeful hours of pain, which grew longer and longer until they seemed unbearable, slowly passed. At last, toward dawn, he fell asleep and when he awoke the sun was shining through the barred window. He felt much better, except for the throbbing in his shoulder. He did not have a fever. When Haught returned he said, “Good morning.”

  The sheriff replied cheerfully telling him that he had made a good night of it and that there was little to worry about.

  “Sheriff, don’t let anybody see me today, not even — not even Miss Bandon. I can get up and move around if I have to. I don’t want anything but cold water.”

  “I know how you feel, Bradway. I’ve shot some bad hombres myself in my day. It isn’t pleasant the morning after, but from what I hear and from what Kit Bandon tells me you ought to have a medal.”

  “You’re a peculiar sheriff,” whispered Lincoln with a wan smile.

  “Thet is kind of funny considerin’ I’ve run you in and have to keep you here for a while.”

  “I’d rather be here than anywhere else, just now. But why do you have to keep me? It was an even draw.”

  “I’ll tell you in good time. I don’t want to get you excited.”

  “That woman!”

  “Which one?” said the sheriff quizzically.

  “Kit Bandon, of course. I’ve a hunch she wants me kept in here. Well, I’m glad.... Sheriff, will you go to the hotel and bring back my bag and clothes?”

  “What’ll I tell the women?” asked the sheriff.

  “Tell Kit I’m terribly bad, but when you see Lucy tell her the truth.”

  “Oho!” said the sheriff, laughing. “I’ll be doggoned! This is goin’ to turn out to be the most interestin’ shootin’-bee I’ve had in a long time. You were asking for Miss Bandon, last night, when you were a bit delirious, but I never dreamed it was the filly you wanted.”

  He stamped out noisily and in an hour or so returned with the cowboy’s belongings. This time he moved quietly and left without speaking. Linc heard the key grate in the lock.

  Bradway pulled himself upright to attempt walkin
g around the room. A throbbing pain seared his shoulder and left him dizzy. But if necessary, he could have mounted a horse and ridden away. He paced the room, lay down again only to come to his feet restlessly and move around once more. There were blinds over the windows which he pulled down to keep out the glare of daylight. Then he made no further effort to avoid the ghastly reaction. He settled down to a grim and dark fight. The day passed with the spell hard upon him; when night had fallen he was gradually recovering from its somber grip and eventually he was able to sleep again.

  Next morning Lincoln was himself again. The bullet wound still made him twinge, but his mind was at peace once more. He shaved himself and donned a clean white shirt, but since he could not leave the prison he went back to bed. Marie stolidly brought him breakfast from the hotel, the meal being accompanied by flowers. Lincoln had a fair idea who sent them.

  The prisoner had scarcely finished his breakfast when Sheriff Haught entered with the doctor and Kit Bandon. She was dressed in white and appeared as gay as the flowers she admitted having sent him. The doctor’s examination was brief. At its conclusion he said, “Sheriff, you can let him out of here today.”

  “Oh no, I cain’t. He’s under arrest.”

  “Well,” said the doctor, “my work is done. Young man, when they release you come and see me.”

  “Thank you, doctor. I’ll be coming pronto.”

  Kit sat down on the bed beside him, and began stroking his forehead with a soft hand.

  “You look fine, Lincoln. All clean-shaven and white-shirted! You must have expected — someone.... Are you in any pain?”

  “Not to speak of — physically,” he replied, regarding her steadily.

  As he looked up into those tender dark eyes and felt the soothing administrations of the annoying woman’s almost hypnotic hands, he recalled that Lucy had told him about Kit’s being madly infatuated with him. Soon she must learn the truth about Lucy and him. There would be hell pronto. He knew that Lucy would keep their secret, but he, himself, would have to tell her if she — didn’t leave him alone.