Clattering Hoofs

by William MacLeod Raine

  “First off, Webb did not kill Giles Lemmon. Uhlmann did it, while he was shooting at the boy. Packard fixed it up to frame the kid. Uhlmann brags too much when he is drunk. I could tell you too who shot Chuck Holloway, but I am not going to do it. I will say it was neither Fraser nor Webb.”

  “Father and I can testify to that. We were looking through the window watching them as they ran for their horses. Neither of them fired a shot.”

  “Some of the gang with Uhlmann that night give yore father credit for the shot.”

  “It’s not true,” Sandra denied indignantly.

  “I know,” Scarface nodded. “Holloway was a very bad character. He had been fixing to ruin the fifteen-year-old daughter of a man who was present that night. This father would not have shot him down without giving warning. I’m sure of that. Not if an emergency hadn’t jumped up and kinda forced his hand. He liked Webb, and he was against this ganging-up to kill him. The man followed Uhlmann’s pack of wolves out of the back door of the Legal Tender. About the first thing he saw was Chuck Holloway standing not a dozen yards from Webb raising his rifle to fire at him. He couldn’t miss. This man I am telling you about is a crack shot with a forty-five, one of the best I ever saw. He fired once. That was enough. Later he told me about it. Now I’m telling you. His life may be in yore hands, Miss Ranger. Some of these birds might ambush him if they knew.”

  “I’ll be very careful,” the girl promised. “The testimony of Father and me will clear Bob. We don’t need to know this man’s name.”

  “I hope you’re close-mouthed. If you are not, just remember before you talk that my friend’s life may hang on it.” Scarface passed to another charge against Webb. “Also by the underground whisper I know that Webb and Fraser did not hold up the Oracle stage. Uhlmann and another man did it. I won’t say any more about that.”

  When they rode into the yard of the Circle J R, Sandra was surprised to see her father dismounting from a horse.

  “I thought you intended to be away two days,” she said.

  Ranger’s eyes could not conceal their astonishment at the companion she had brought with her to the ranch. He said, “There was a letter in the mail-box that made it unnecessary for me to go.”

  “Father, I have done something foolish,” his daughter said.

  “I’m getting used to that,” John Ranger replied coldly, his gaze still on the desperado. “What was it?”

  “I found out that Mary Gilcrest is Uhlmann’s wife, so I rode to the X Bar ranch to talk with her.”

  The face of the cattleman flushed angrily. “I didn’t think that even you were foolish enough to do that,” he told her.

  Sandra had made up her mind to tell the whole story and face the consequences. “I went up along the ridge, so as not to be seen. I saw Mr. Fraser there, and after I left him I met Uhlmann.” She related what had occurred there.

  “He shot at you?” Ranger repeated, his face dark with anger.

  “Yes.” She went on to tell the rest of the story.

  Once Scarface interrupted, embarrassed at the credit she gave him. “Come, Miss Ranger, all I did was to tell Rhino where to head in.”

  “You stood up to him and told him what he was,” she cried. “You made him let me go with you and told him you would set the ranchers of the valley on him to hang him. I thought once he would shoot you.”

  “I knew he wouldn’t,” the rustler answered lightly. “I was watching him. Fact is, Mr. Ranger, I only did what any white man would do.” On his face was a sarcastic smile. “If you and yore friends ever catch me with the goods there is nothing to prevent you from hanging me to a cottonwood. No obligation on yore part. I been waiting for a chance to step on that bully Uhlmann’s corns.”

  Ranger was embarrassed. It had not been a month since he had almost caught this man driving away his stock, and if he had been captured he would certainly have been hanged on the spot. Now the man had intervened to save his daughter from the results of her folly.

  He managed a smile. “Mr. Brown, you have me in a cleft stick. No matter what you say I am under a very great obligation to you. And I don’t see how I can repay it. You have chosen a crooked trail to travel, and you know where it is likely to end. Unless you leave it, there is nothing I can do for you.”

  “Just what I’ve been telling you.” There was a flash of teeth in the brown face as the outlaw smiled hardily. “We understand each other perfectly. I’ll be saying adios.”

  “Father!” the girl murmured unhappily. She could not let the man leave on that note.

  Scarface came to the rescue. “It’s all right, Miss. Nothing else Mr. Ranger can say or do. He’s not throwing me down. It has to be this way.”

  After he had mounted, Sandra impulsively walked up to him and offered her hand. “I’m not a cattleman,” she said. “Whatever you are, I can’t help it. I know you stood up to that villain Uhlmann and brought me back home safe. No matter what happens, I won’t ever forget it.”

  He held her small hand in his large brown one for a moment, a smile on his face that relaxed its habitual vigilant wariness.

  “That goes double, Miss. I won’t forget either.”

  He turned his horse and rode, a lithe and graceful figure, to whatever fate destiny had in store for him.

  Ranger turned to his daughter, a worried frown on his face. “I’m glad you told him that. Though he is a scoundrel and a thief, he is a generous fellow with a clean streak in him. You put me in a nice spot, girl. He goes out of his way to help you when you are in trouble, and all I can say to him is that I hope I won’t have to help hang him. Can’t you stay at home and behave yourself, Sandra? Do I have to lock you in your room?”

  She told him she had learned her lesson and promised to do nothing more without consulting him.

  * Sheriff of Cochise County, Arizona, in its wild days. While he was cleaning up his territory he served notice to the rustlers, “Get out or get killed.” During his term of office there was a considerable migration of night-riding gentry.

  32. Sandra Forgets Her Bringing Up

  MARY UHLMANN NEED NOT HAVE WORRIED ABOUT HER welcome at the Circle J R ranch. John Ranger lifted her from the saddle and gave her a smiling greeting in Spanish—“Esta es su casa de usted.” His daughter put strong young arms around the guest’s thin shoulders and gave her a quick hug. It touched Mary deeply to be told that this was her home, to feel the warmth of the Rangers’ friendliness pouring into her starved heart.

  Though she did not know it, her young hostess was more emotionally disturbed than she. Sandra had given Bob Webb a very casual greeting, but her cheeks were flying signals of excitement. The man she loved was back again, unhurt, and the clouds that had hung heavy over him were breaking. She was afraid to look at him, for fear her face would tell too much.

  Fraser came forward, spurs jingling. “Didn’t I tell you I would be camping on yore doorstep, compadre, soon as the heat was off?” he asked, a twinkle in his sun-faded blue eyes.

  The girl was grateful for his badinage. She knew he was giving her a chance to ease back to the normal. “Good to know there is one faithful man alive,” she laughed.

  “I’m him.” Stan lowered his voice to a stage whisper and jerked his head toward Bob. “Course he had to drag along. Some folks never know when they are not wanted. We’ll fix it to get rid of him.”

  Ranger was pointing out to Mrs. Uhlmann the pass over which the Apaches had crossed the Huachucas to sweep down on the valley less than twenty years before. Bob was watching Sandra and his friend, a sardonic smile on his strong-boned face.

  “We mustn’t hurt his feelings by hurrying him off— now he is here,” Sandra pointed out.

  “Oh, we’ll let him stick around a little while—say about sixty years.” Fraser slapped his hat against the shiny chaps and gave a small whoop of triumph at his hit.

  The girl looked at him reproachfully. “You know so much! Just for that I’m going to leave you.” She moved to join her father and their
guest. As she passed Bob she murmured, “Want to see you alone before you go.”

  Webb nodded without speaking. He had something to say to her, and he preferred to say it when nobody else was present.

  Sandra showed Mary to the room she was to occupy. It was the sort of bedroom the older woman had dreamed about, bright and cheerful, with chintz window curtains, a big easy-chair and soft bed, a good rag carpet. Shy embarrassment made her almost speechless. As Sandra fussed over little details that made for comfort, Mary had a feeling she ought to fight against the gratitude that was melting the protective ice so long stored in her. She was afraid to let herself be glad, for fear of the pain that would follow when she found her joy illusory.

  The girl left her to wash off the dust of travel. She found Bob Webb alone on the porch. Fraser had drawn John Ranger to the barn on pretense of wanting to look at the new Hereford bull the stockman had recently bought.

  “Let’s go into the orchard,” Sandra said. “It will be cool there.”

  As soon as they were among the peach trees Bob opened his attack. “Don’t you know better than to go fooling around with Uhlmann?” he demanded sharply. “I’ve told you it isn’t safe for you to try to find out anything he and Packard want kept secret. If you would only let me manage my own affairs!”

  She looked at him in surprise, astonished and hurt at his brusque vehemence. “I thought that——”

  “Can’t you get it through yore noodle that if you learn too much about these blackhearted villains they will rub you out?” he interrupted. “They won’t stop because you are a woman. That devil might have killed you today. This isn’t a game they are playing with me. They mean to destroy me, just as I mean to destroy them.”

  Sandra knew his irritation had its genesis in his anxiety for her safety, but her anger rose at his dictatorial manner. He might make some allowance for the urge that had driven her and for the fact that her interest had uncovered the evidence that might save him.

  “That’s my lookout,” she snapped, hot temper in her eyes. “I don’t have to ask you what I can or can’t do. I’ll go on doing as I please.”

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her till her teeth chattered. When he freed her she stood staring at him in astonishment, too breathless to talk. Sandra was no more amazed than he. Until the moment that his hands were on her he had not had the remotest idea of what he was going to do. How could he explain to her that it was his dark fear for her that had boiled up in heady anger?

  “Just another Uhlmann,” she said. “But you haven’t blacked either of my eyes yet.”

  He might have retorted that she had not lashed him with a quirt, but he had no spirit for contention. He had burnt out his exasperation in action. All she had done for him flooded up in his mind, not only her brave fight to save him from approaching catastrophe but of even more importance the rebirth of hope and faith in him her trust had inspired. With a little gesture of defeat he turned to go.

  “Wait a minute,” she ordered.

  They looked steadily into each other’s eyes. Mirth began to bubble in hers. “It’s not fatal to shake up a girl—when she needs it,” Sandra mentioned. “Maybe it will improve her, as it does medicine in a bottle.”

  He was still shocked at what he had done. “I don’t know how I came to lay hands on you. I must have gone crazy.”

  Her face had crinkled to laughter. “You’re very vigorous in your punishments, sir,” she said, with mock demureness, and she lifted some stray golden locks to prove it. “My hair has tumbled every which way.”

  All he could say was, “I don’t want these villains to hurt you.”

  “If it has to be done, you’ll do it yourself,” she added with neat friendly malice.

  “You wouldn’t listen to me, and I thought it might make the difference between life and death for you.”

  “I’ll listen now.” A queer song of joy was singing in her breast. He would not have been so violent if it had not been for his interest in her. “And I’ll promise from now on to stay at home and not lift a finger. Does that suit you?”

  “It suits me fine. I’ll shake hands on it.”

  Their hands met and clung fast. Out of that contact some magnetic force flowed that drew one irresistibly to the other. His arms went round her and their lips met in a long kiss that set the blood pounding.

  He pushed her from him. “What am I doing?” he asked in a low rough voice. “There can’t ever be anything between you and me. We both know that.”

  “But there is,” she denied exultantly. “There always has been since the first moment we met.”

  A savage joy beat up in him, but he set himself grimly to fight it down. “No,” he answered harshly. “There is the curse of the prison on me. All through your life it would rise up to destroy your happiness.”

  “If it is proved you are not guilty?”

  “People would forget that. They would remember that I spent years in a penitentiary.”

  “But you are wrong,” she cried. “And it wouldn’t matter what they thought so long as we knew the truth.”

  “Not today or tomorrow maybe, but in the years to come. It would be a blot on our children’s future. I’ve been having an impossible dream, but I’ve got to face facts now.”

  “We’ll wait until you’re cleared and talk of this again,” she said.

  “No,” he flung back unhappily. “Never again. There’s a wall between us we can’t break down.”

  The girl looked at him with high spirit, her lovely young head held high. “You are wrong, Bob Webb. There’s no wall except one your silly pride has built up. You can’t kiss me like that and throw me over. I won’t have it, for I know you love me. My future has its rights as much as yours. You can’t decide this alone without consulting me.”

  “It’s you I’m thinking of, a lovely young girl, sheltered and——”

  “Fiddlesticks!” she interrupted. “I thought you had more sense. A woman doesn’t sit on a pedestal, making sure her hands are lily-white and that there is no common dust on her skirts. Unless she is a fool she goes out and—and meets life. She loves and marries and has children, if she is lucky. Her hands roughen and her face wrinkles. Griefs and trouble wear her away, as they do a man. And in spite of that she is happy, given the right mate by her side.”

  Slender and erect, she faced him. A warm glow beat through the clear skin. Her starry eyes challenged him. She was as spirited, he thought, as a young Joan of Arc. The gospel she flung out so hotly was heresy against the traditions in which she had been brought up, that a good girl must wait demurely, eyes downcast and innocent, until the man came to seek her. She would have none of that mincing philosophy. If her happiness was at stake, she meant to fight for it.

  “When I am wearing my striped uniform I am Number 4582,” he reminded her gently.

  “The only thing that matters about a man is what he is, not what people say about him,” she retorted.

  He was puzzled at her sureness. She was so young, and had gone such a little way in life, yet somehow had cut through conventions to essential truth.

  “Where did you learn so much?” he asked her, a smile in his eyes.

  She knew she had won. “I thought it out nights in bed when I couldn’t sleep for worrying about you. I found out what was important and what wasn’t.” An impudent little smile wrinkled her face. “If I’m a forward hussy, I don’t care.”

  He took her in his arms again. “I’ve just found out how much I like forward hussies,” he told her.

  33. Uhlmann Makes a Refund

  JUG PACKARD SAT BEHIND AN OLD SCARRED DESK FIGURING A payroll. He was seated in a cheap kitchen chair. In one corner of the office were piles of old accounts tied together with strings. Dirt and disorder were everywhere.

  An observer who knew Jug well would have noticed that he was expecting a visitor and had made preparations not to be surprised by him. The soiled curtains of the windows were drawn closely to prevent anybody outside from seeing in
to the room. A box half filled with papers had been set against the closed door so that it could not be opened without warning. The drawer of the desk was out about six inches, and in it lay a forty-five, the butt of it within six inches of Jug’s fingers.

  The expected caller had given Packard no advance notice of a visit. His expectation of one was due to his knowledge of a certain man’s psychology. Probably the fellow had not sent word to Pete McNulty that he was coming, but Pete ought to have been ready anyhow. Jug did not intend to be taken unaware.

  He had not made up his mind yet whether to kill his uninvited guest or not. It would be a popular thing to do, and just now with the cards running against him he could use some public good will. It might be the safest course, since dead men tell no tales. On the other hand it might be that he could still use Uhlmann to get rid of Webb.

  The door handle turned slowly. Packard’s right hand dropped into the desk. He watched the box being pushed farther into the room. His fingers came out of the drawer and rested on the desk. They were holding the revolver.

  “Come in, Rhino,” he invited, his voice suave and mocking. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  The box slid across the floor as the door whipped open.

  Uhlmann stood on the threshold. The two men stared at each other. Packard was smiling, derisive mockery on his hatchet face.

  “Nice of you to drop in on me,” he jeered. “You visiting all yore old friends before you leave the country?”

  “Put that gun down, Jug,” growled Uhlmann. “You don’t need it.”

  “Any more than Pete McNulty needed one,” Packard reminded the other. His thin lips tightened. The foxy slyness in his face was gone, in its place a cruel implacable wariness. “Sit down in that chair, and put yore hands on its arms. Move slow. Don’t forget that I can fling three-four slugs into yore belly before you drag out that gun you’re thinking about.”