“That lousy Whitey Hope!” Tremaine exploded, flying into a rage which until now had found an outlet in the contempt and sarcasm he had forced Masterson to endure. “Shag down there some of you boys. Give that counter-jumper the damnedest chapping a man ever got. Ride him out of town on a rail. I ought to have plugged him in the first place.”
“Whitey Hope’s a friend of mine,” Montana warned in a voice now little above a whisper. He turned slightly to halt several of the erstwhile poker players who, obviously eager of an opportunity to leave, had seized upon Tremaine’s suggestion, thrown down their hands, leaped up, and were crowding toward the door. “You’re too late to do any chapping, or rail-riding either to Whitey Hope, fellers,” he said without raising his voice. “The Buzzard spread has bought him out—hay and everything.” He shot a quick glance at Masterson to get his reaction to the announcement. The old man was fairly beaming. Sure now of his ground, Montana rushed on. “There’s a law to stop you from stepping foot inside that store. What’s more, Whitey Hope is now riding for the Buzzard spread. A scrap with him means a scrap with every man in our outfit.”
He swung back to face Tremaine squarely, leaving the others gaping at him in open-mouthed amazement.
“You’re just about the caliber I figured you, Tremaine,” he said scornfully. “A walloper ready to devil a feller as old as Pop Masterson—and offering him his choice of taking eight dollars a head or losing his critters at poker. It sure shows the guts you’ve got.
“And that hay deal. That was another dirty play, Tremaine. But you’re the one who got caught by it if anybody did. Our stuff is in the river bottoms. And while I think of it, I want to warn you that when you move those Diamond A’s up you want to be sure and not let them mix with us or we’ll scatter them from hell to breakfast, like you figured to scatter our critters. You might have bluffed folks on this range for a long spell, Tremaine. But you can’t bluff us.”
An ominous silence by now had settled down over the big saloon. Save for the rasping breath of the tipsy onlookers, the tinkle of spur rowels and the swish of the bartender’s towel no sound broke the gripping stillness. Smokey and Montana stood framed in the flickering light, motionless as stone, muscles taut, gazes locked. Both faces were expressionless, yet a slow pale shade was driving the flush of liquor from Tremaine’s pitted cheeks. His gloved fingers, hooked in his studded cartridge belt, had the advantage in the distance they had to travel to his guns. But obviously the recollection of Montana’s speedy draw of a few hours before was all too vivid. The crowd stared in wonder. Again the strange cowboy had dared defy Smokey Tremaine. And they waited with fearful expectancy for the outcome.
Someone moved. A chair crashed to the floor. Smokey started. Aside from a jerk of straining muscles, Montana gave no sign that he even heard. The man who had risen from the poker table was big King Kent.
With amazing calm Pop Masterson felt the tension grow. His sixty years in the West were pregnant with the recollections of fatal gunplay. In days long past—before he had laid away his own forty-five forever—it too had exacted its toll of human life. Yet it occurred to him as he watched that never had he seen eyes so utterly devoid of fear as the blue-gray ones of Montana, who was smiling into the Diamond A foreman’s bloodless face.
Sizing up the situation with a precision born of many desperate encounters where one false move meant death, when he spoke Pop’s voice was little more than a whisper, yet it seemed to boom through the room. The deadly tension snapped.
“Come along, Montana,” he urged gently. “I’ve tried to tell them who I am, but they won’t listen. There’ll be other ways to settle this thing.”
Montana dared a glance at him. But before he could reply Kent found his voice.
“No there won’t,” he bawled. “I told you when you first came in here that I was King Kent, owner of the Diamond A and president of the County Stock Association. You’re up against it, jasper—no range, no water. There’s only one way for you to settle it. This poker game may seem like a joke to you; but it just goes to show how high your critters rate with us. And the Association is ready to back us up in anything we do. Now you’ll either sell at our price or you’ll get the hell out of the country!”
Masterson started to sputter a reply. But Montana stopped him.
“Let me do the talking, Pop,” he said. “You’ve been away from this kind of wolf too long. They’re hard—or think they are.” His tone was careless, yet it teemed with stinging scorn. He wheeled on Kent, careful however, to keep Tremaine well within his range of vision. “The Buzzard outfit is here to stay, jasper. Neither you nor your whole Association can scare us off. We figured on moving in peaceful. If we can’t come that way we’re coming any old way we can!” He seized hold of Masterson’s arm and jerked him back as the old cowman hurled his hat savagely to the floor and lunged toward Kent, his white hair bristling, his face aflame with anger.
“You’re too old, Pop,” Montana cautioned. “There was a day when you could’ve et the two of them up. Go on over to the hotel now and cool off. When things quiet down—”
“Things aren’t going to quiet down!” Kent thundered. “They’re going to get worse—a heap worse—till you’ve got your bellies full of range stealing and—”
The rest of his words were lost to Montana who was struggling to hold the fuming Masterson in check. With main force he shoved the old fellow toward the door.
“Wait a minute, jasper!” Tremaine bawled. “We’re not through with you yet by a hell of a ways. You don’t need to run away.”
“Run away!” Montana whirled to bite off the words. “Run away! Why—you white-livered fourflusher you never saw the day anything or anybody would run away from you. You, the kind of a jasper who tries to buffalo storekeepers into not selling hay to hungry critters. A jasper who tries to throw the fear of the Lord into a man old enough to be his father. And you’re just the caliber who never shoots till the other man’s back is turned. I’ve got you pegged. Now four-flush and be damned. Play poker for our stuff if you get any fun out of it. Then try to collect what you win if you feel lucky. Get going, Pop!”
Again he started the blustering old fellow toward the door. And again Tremaine hurled a stinging taunt after them.
Before Montana could reply Kent shouted, “Remember, you’re blackballed from every roundup in the county. You’ll run your own wagon and gather your own stuff. You’ll never ship a head out of this county. The Association will—”
“Blackball and be damned!” Montana shot back coldly. “When the time comes to ship, we’ll ship, and don’t you forget it. As for us gathering our own stuff, from the looks of that jasper”—indicating Tremaine—“we aren’t so dead anxious to have your pool wagons handle it. We’re willing even now to forget the whole thing, play with you, shoot square with you, give you the best of it if you’ll come down off your high horses. But stick to straight poker and don’t start any freeze-out games with Buzzard stuff; because you’re going to get the worst of it in the long run.”
“Get the worst of it!” Tremaine howled. “Get the worst of it from a damned lousy bunch of—”
“We may be fourflushers to your way of thinking,” Montana cut him short, “but you’ll find out we take what is coming to us.”
“And you’ll get that, too!” Smokey bawled. “You—”
“Careful,” Montana warned softly, his face set, colorless, his lips braced in a thin line across his teeth. “You can think those things if you want to; but don’t say them out loud. Get going, Pop!”
His tone sent the crowd edging farther into the sheltering gloom outside the rim of light. Masterson opened his mouth to protest. That protest was never voiced. Three shots cracked one on another. The reverberations crashed down deafeningly on the tense and motionless group. Spirals of acrid blue smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling.
Smokey Tremaine swayed slightly. One of the two
Colts he had jerked from his holsters—the left, Montana noted in surprise—was smoking when it clattered to the floor. Tremaine’s knees buckled. His other gun dropped from limp fingers. He pitched headlong across the poker table!
Montana’s eyes swept the dumfounded crowd. Kent, too, had a gun clutched in his hand. And another man—a stranger whom, until now, he had scarcely noticed—was sheathing a forty-five. A low moan brought him about. Pop Masterson threw out his arms and crumpled in a heap.
“You—” Montana shouted hoarsely, holstering his own hot-barreled Colt and clutching for the wounded cowman. “You lousy—” He dropped to his knees beside the prostrate man. “If Pop is hurt bad this range hasn’t ever seen any hell like it is going to. Water, bartender!” He raised the snow-white head in his arms. “Pop! Pop! Where are you hit?”
A soft light drove the pain from the old cowman’s eyes as they fluttered open.
“You did your best, Montana,” he panted. “I didn’t figure they’d shoot a man who didn’t even have a gun.” His voice sank to a whisper. He fought gamely for breath. Montana leaned closer to catch his words. But the effort was too great. Only a gurgling sound issued from pain-locked lips.
From the corner of his eye Montana saw the man, Kent, holster his own gun, pick up Tremaine’s, ram them into the foreman’s holsters, throw an arm about the groaning fellow, lift him from the poker table and half carry, half drag him toward the back door.
“Hold on there!” Montana cried. “If Pop dies that drunken lobo will swing from the nearest tree in Thunder Basin.”
Kent’s only answer was to double his speed. Shifting Masterson’s head in his arms, Montana drew and fired. A warning bullet—a bullet that ripped through the door just as Kent threw Smokey outside, leaped after him and banged it shut behind them.
Montana had no time to think of pursuit. For at that moment Pop again found his voice, husky and weak though it was.
“Reckon the jig is up with me, Montana,” the old fellow faltered. “I don’t know much about you—But you’ve showed me you deal from the top. I haven’t any kin-no one to carry on for me. If you want to—”
“I sure do, Pop,” Montana flashed. “I want to stick here until I clean out this wolf den—Make these back-shooters—”
The old man attempted a grim smile that ended in a twinge of pain.
“Stick then, Montana. Right here in Thunder Basin. There’s a will back in Omaha—leaves all my stuff to my foreman who is with me when I cash in. I figured the other jasper in Alliance—But it’s too late to change it now—I know you’ll fight—like I’d want you to fight. Get yourself a good partner—One you can trust—” He clutched at his chest in a desperate effort to hang on.
“I’ve already got him, Pop,” Montana said. “The truest pardner ever I had except—Whitey’s his name, Whitey Hope. He’ll stick to me till hell freezes over.”
“And you’ve got another pard,” came a voice from above him. “Another pard who will play the game with you. From this day on Bob Hartzell of the T6, is with you.”
Montana glanced up quickly to meet the eyes of the third man he had noticed holstering his Colt immediately after the gunplay.
“Thanks, jasper,” he muttered. “I reckon I’ll need friends if I’m going to fight this damned underhanded gang.”
“Fight ’em,” Pop gasped. “Fight ’em to the last ditch. You’ve got the winning hand. You’ll see what I mean by my papers back in Omaha. It’s a bad break now. But—clean out the whole works—Get Kent first. You’ll understand when you see the will, the papers—And I know you’ll do it. Wire Bert Jones in Omaha. His address is in my pocket. I want to be buried in Omaha—I—So long!” His voice trailed off to a sob. He shuddered and straightened out.
Montana sat for a moment without moving. Then he laid the white head down gently and got to his feet.
“I reckon this is the first draw in Thunder Basin,” he muttered, a new hardness in his voice. “It was against me. But it won’t be the last one. You jaspers—” He swept the mute punchers with eyes that now were glazed with a terrible light. “You’d best be picking your sides—because no man can be neutral. To think men would get so low they’d kill that white-haired old feller,” he muttered brokenly. “But they’ll pay—just plenty.”
Then he was himself again, his emotion in check.
“Some of you get the coroner and the sheriff!” he commanded. “The rest of you—get out!”
Still stunned by the swift-moving tragedy they had witnessed the men slunk from the saloon, leaving Montana and the bartender gazing down at the still figure of Pop Masterson.
“Poor old Pop,” Montana repeated, dropping again to his knees to take the snow-white head in his arms. “Your first day in Elbar—Like it’s mine. They got you. But they didn’t get me. They’ve showed their hands. Now, damn them, they’ll play them as they stand—to the finish!”
CHAPTER TEN
CLUE TO A KILLER
Long after the others had left, Montana knelt beside the body of Pop Masterson, stunned by the tragedy that had burst with such appalling suddenness about him, prey to chaotic impulses that cascaded through his brain to fire him with passion; red, blinding passion.
With a masterful effort he succeeded in getting some control over himself. In the pocket of Pop’s coat he found some letters, a notebook in which were the addresses he had mentioned; then he started to rise to his feet. Purely by chance he encountered a small hard object beneath the coat. He fingered it idly for a moment. Then curiosity got the better of him. Lifting the coat, he groped under it until his fingers came in contact with the object imbedded in Pop’s clothing. Working it loose, he pulled it forth. It was the bullet that had brought Pop down. A hard-nosed bullet encased in a copper jacket and the end of which had been nicked. Its size, he imagined, would indicate that it had been fired from a forty-five. Apparently it had passed clear through Masterson’s body but had so far spent itself that it had failed to pierce the coat.
Instantly Montana was alert to the value of his discovery. The pellet of lead was damning evidence of guilt. Few men used copper-jacketed bullets; fewer nicked them. He had heard that the niche kept the bullet from glancing, forced it to drill a straight hole when an unnicked bullet would deviate and follow the line of least resistance. It was a secret of gunmen who shot to kill and never wound their victims. Yet, he reasoned, hostile as the Thunder Basin clan had proved itself only luck would ever give him a chance to examine the cartridges in their guns.
He got to his feet to stand gazing at the bullet, which lay in the palm of his hand. Thought of the grim tragedy the harmless-looking pellet had caused again set the scalding blood of passion to pounding through his veins. But he was quickly master of himself, his rage submerged in the lucid thoughts that began arranging themselves in his brain. After all, he decided, nicked though it was, the bullet would do him no good. He had all the evidence he needed. Smokey Tremaine had killed Pop Masterson. There had been three distinct shots. He had fired the one that sent Tremaine down. And Tremaine had fired the other two-one each from the brace of forty-fives he had whipped from his holsters.
He walked over to the stove, resolved to rid himself of the bullet which ever would be a reminder of the tragedy.
“What are you aiming to do, jasper?” a voice inquired at his elbow.
Montana whirled to face the little bartender who had come up quietly behind him.
“Isn’t that a bullet you’ve got there?” the fellow demanded before Montana could reply.
“Yes. The one that dropped Pop. Went clean through him and lodged in his clothes. It’s nicked.”
“What are you aiming to do with it?” the bartender repeated.
“Throw it in the stove. It isn’t any good now.”
“The hell it ain’t,” the bartender burst out excitedly. “It’s nicked, huh? Don’t throw it away, jasper. It might
prove who killed the old feller.”
“Prove who killed him?” Montana growled. “That don’t have to be proved. Tremaine did that killing.”
“If you ever prove Smokey Tremaine did it you’ll do more than has ever been done in Elbar before,” the bartender said, laying a hand on Montana’s arm. “You save that bullet. Someday it might come in handy. And jasper—” He hesitated a moment, gazing into Montana’s eyes. “I was against you when you hit this town. I was with Kent and Tremaine. I heard this frame-up about the blockade, the blackballing. But since I’ve seen you and that good old feller they plugged, I just want you to know that Irish Jerry is for the Buzzard spread. And if there is anything I can ever do for you, just tip me the wink.” He offered his hand in a simple gesture of friendship.
Montana gripped it warmly.
“Thanks, Jerry,” he said huskily. “You’re the kind of a friend I’m looking for. Another like Whitey Hope. And I’ll keep this nicked bullet—”
“Under your hat,” the bartender cautioned, placing a warning finger on his lips. “And watch out for another frame-up.” He moved swiftly back behind the bar. Montana wiped off the bullet, dropped it into his pocket and threw himself into a chair to resume his endless chain of thought.
The arrival shortly of the sheriff—a hatchet-faced old Westerner with gray hair and a harassed expression on his weather-whipped countenance—and the coroner, a shifty-eyed individual in a frock coat, who resembled more a tinhorn gambler than a representative of the law—cut short his retrospection. He watched them dully as they set the men who had accompanied them to lifting the body of Pop and carrying it away.
Then the coroner was beside him.
“Jerry says you’re the Buzzard foreman,” he was saying in a gruff, jerky voice. “You did some shooting yourself, I hear. You just trot along with us, feller. We’ll see if you can come into a peaceful town like Elbar and start hell like this. We’re going to hold the inquest now.”
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