Prairie Flowers

by Hendryx, James B

  "Help yerself," Grimshaw grinned, "an' just to show you there's no hard feelin's, I'll let the tail go with the hide—there's three others you c'n have along with him."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean if you don't get him before supper, I'll have to. The four of 'em's got tired of the horse game. Banks an' railroad trains looks better to them. I'm too slow fer 'em. They're tired of me, an' tonight they aim to kill me an' Bill Harlow—which they're welcome to if they can git away with it."

  An answering grin twisted the lips of the Texan: "Keep pretty well posted—don't you, Cass?"

  "Where'd I be now, if I didn't? But about this woman business—I told Purdy to let the women alone—but you can't tell that bird nothin'. He knows it all—an' then some. Is she your woman, an' how come Purdy to have her?"

  "No, she ain't mine—she's the wife of the pilgrim—the one we didn't lynch, that night——"

  Grimshaw shook his head: "Bad business, Tex—mixin' up with other men's wives. Leads to trouble every time—there's enough single ones—an' even then——"

  Tex interrupted him: "It ain't that kind of a mixup. This is on the level. She an' I was on Long Bill's ferry, an' the drift piled up against us so bad I had to cut the cable. We drifted ashore this side of Red Sand, an' while I was gone to get some horses, Purdy come along an' made off with her. I followed an' lost Purdy's trail here in the bad lands—I was half crazy yesterday, thinkin' of her bein' in Purdy's clutches—but, today, it ain't so bad. If I find her quick there's a chance she's safe." He paused and drew from his pocket the folded hand-bill. "The pilgrim offered a reward, an' Purdy aims to get it."

  The other glanced at the bill: "I seen one," he said, gruffly. For a moment he puffed rapidly upon his cigarette, threw away the butt, and looked the Texan squarely in the eye: "There's a couple of things about that bill I've wanted to know. You've told me about the woman part. But the rest of it? What in hell you be'n doin' to have a reward up fer you? You spoke a mouthful when you said we'd be'n friends—we're friends yet. It's a friend that's talkin' to you now—an' one that knows what he's talkin' about. You're a damn fool! A young buck like you, which if you'd stay straight could be foreman of any outfit on the range—an' mebbe git one of his own started after while—goin' an' gittin' hisself outlawed! Fer God's sake, man—you don't know what you've gone up against—but—me—I know! How bad be you in?" The Texan started to speak, but the other interrupted. "If it ain't bad—if a matter of a thousan' or so will square it—you go an' fix it up. I've got the money—an' it ain't doin' me no good—nor no one else, cached out in an old iron kettle. You take it an' git straight—an' then you stay straight!"

  The Texan laughed: "There ain't nothin' against me—that is nothin' that amounts to anything. I got a few drinks in me, an' cleaned out the Red Front saloon over in Timber City an' because I wouldn't let Hod Blake arrest me an' shove me in his damned little jail, he stuck up the reward. I'll just ride over when I get time, an' claim the reward myself—an' use the money to pay my fine with—that part's a joke."

  As Grimshaw joined in the laugh, the Texan leaned over and laid his hand on the man's shoulder: "But, I won't forget—Cass."

  The man brushed away the hand: "Aw, hell! That's all right. You'd of made a hell-winder of an outlaw, but the best of 'em an' the worst of 'em—there's nothin' ahead of us—but that." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the body of Long Bill that lay sprawled where it had fallen and changed the subject abruptly. "The woman's safe, all right—she's over to Cinnabar Joe's."

  "Cinnabar Joe's!"

  "Yes, Cinnabar an' that there Jennie that used to work in the Wolf River Hotel, they married up an' started 'em a little outfit over on Red Sand—couple hundred head of dogies. Purdy's got somethin' on Cinnabar, an'——"

  "Somethin' on him!" exclaimed Tex, "Cinnabar's white clean through! What could Purdy have on him?"

  Grimshaw rolled another cigarette: "Cinnabar's be'n in this country around six years. Him bein' more'n six year old, it stands to reason he done quite a bit of livin' 'fore he come here. Where'd he come from? Where'd you come from? Where'd I come from? Where'd anyone you know come from? You might of be'n ornery as hell in Texas, or New Mexico, or Colorado—an' I might of be'n a preacher in California, or Nevada. All we know is that 'long as we've know'd him Cinnabar's be'n on the level—an' that's all we're entitled to know—an' all we want to know. Whatever Cinnabar was somewhere's else, ain't nobody's business. Nobody's, that is, but Purdy's. He made his brag in the hang-out one night that when the time come, he'd tap Cinnabar fer his pile——"

  "The damned dirty hound!"

  "That's sayin' it ladylike," grinned the outlaw, "I told him Cinnabar was a friend of mine an' he was to keep off him, but Purdy, he's plumb disregardful of advice. Anyways, the woman's safe. Purdy's figurin' on leavin' her there while he dickers fer the reward."

  The Texan rose to his feet: "Where did you say I'd find Purdy?" he asked. The other consulted his watch. "It's nine-thirty. At noon he'll be at the water hole, four mile north of the hang-out. Up till then they ain't no hurry. We'll plant him first, an' then I'll go along—me an' Bill Harlow——"

  The Texan shook his head: "No Cass, this is my job. It's a long score I've got to settle with Purdy—startin' back a year. It leads off with a cut cinch. Then, there was the booze that Cinnabar Joe doped——"

  "Cinnabar?"

  "Yeh, when he was tendin' bar. I can see through it, now—since you told about Purdy havin' somethin' on him. Purdy got him to do it——"

  "I don't believe Cinnabar'd of done that no matter what Purdy had on him."

  "But he did, though. Then he switched the glasses, an' drunk it himself——"

  "Some man!"

  "I'll tell a hand! An' that same night Purdy took the pilgrim's girl out on the bench, an' dragged her off her horse——"

  "I heard about it."

  "An' then, yesterday, he found her unconscious there by the river." The Texan paused and when he continued his voice was low. "An' you know, an' I know what would have happened, if Long Bill hadn't showed up with those bills—an' then signin' my name to that letter to the pilgrim demandin' five thousan' dollars—an' last of all I owe him one for ridin' Cinnabar the way he's doin—I ain't forgot those switched drinks."

  Cass Grimshaw nodded: "Quite a score to settle, take it first an' last," he paused, and the Texan noticed a peculiar twinkle in his eye.

  "What's the joke?" he asked.

  "There ain't no joke about it—only I was thinkin', mebbe you'd left out somethin'."

  "Left out somethin'?"

  "Yeh. What you think would of happened, an' what would of happened out here in the bad lands, if Long Bill hadn't come along is two different things. I was trailin' Purdy from the time he hit the bad lands with the girl. I wanted to find out what his game was an' when he run onto Long Bill I snuck up an' listened to their powwow. When I found out he aimed to take her to Cinnabar's, I figured, like you did, that she'd be safe, so I kind of loafed around to see if you wouldn't be along."

  "You keep awful close cases on Purdy."

  "Yeh—couple of pretty good reasons. I knew he was plottin' to bump me off, an' I kind of had some curiosity to find out when they figured on pullin' the job. But, mostly, it was on account of McWhorter's gal——"

  "McWhorter's girl!" cried Tex, "what's McWhorter's girl got to do with it?"

  "Nothin'—except that Purdy's be'n buzzin' around tryin' to get her—an' I don't mean marry her, neither—an' when he found out they wasn't nothin' doin'—that he didn't stand snake-high with her, he figured on gittin' her, anyway——"

  "God!" The single spoken word ground between the Texan's tight-drawn lips, and as Grimshaw looked he noted that the gloved fists were clenched hard.

  The outlaw nodded: "That's what I meant about leavin' out an' item—main item, too—I hope. You see, I seen you two ridin' together yesterday—when you sent her back home at the edge of the bad lands. An' that's what made
me so damn mad when I thought you'd gone an' got outlawed, an' was mixin' it up with this here other woman. The man that gits McWhorter's gal don't want his trail tangled up with other men's wives. Marry her, Tex—an' take her out of this damn neck of the woods! Take her across to the other side."

  The Texan met the man's eyes squarely: "I'm goin' to," he answered,—"if she'll have me."

  "Have you, man! Make her have you!"

  "I aim to," smiled the Texan, and Grimshaw noted that behind the smile was a ring of determination. "So you've be'n kind of—of lookin' out fer her, Cass?"

  "Who the hell was they to do it, but me?" answered the man, roughly, "McWhorter's busy up to the lambin'-camp, miles away—an' she's there alone." The man paused, his face working strangely, "By God! If Purdy'd laid a finger on her I'd of—of tore him to pieces!" The Texan stared—surprised at the terrible savagery of the tone. The man continued, his voice dropped low: "It was that that outlawed me, years ago—killin' the damn reptile that ruined my little girl. I stood by the law, them days. He was arrested an' had his trial—an' they give him a year! One year for that! She died before he was out—her, an' the baby both. An' he died the day he got out—an' I was outlawed—an' I'm damn proud of it!"

  The Texan reached out and gripped the man's hand: "I'm goin' after Purdy now," he said quietly. "But first, I'll help you with him."

  It was but the work of a few moments to raise the body of Long Bill to the bench by means of a rope, carry it to a nearby mud crack, drop it in and cave a ton of mud onto it. As they raised him from the coulee Grimshaw had removed his guns: "Better take one of these along," he cautioned, "Purdy packs two—one inside his shirt—an' the dirty hound carries a squeezer in his pocket—don't play him fer dead till he's damn good an' dead, or he'll git you. Better let me an' Bill go along—there's four of 'em—we'll leave Purdy fer you—he's the only one that kin shoot right good—but the others might edge in on you, at that." The Texan shook his head as he examined the guns, carefully testing them as to action and balance. He selected one, and handed the other to Grimshaw.

  "No, Cass, this is my job an' I'm goin' through with it."

  The outlaw gave minute directions concerning the lay of the land, and a few words of excellent advice. "I've got a little scoutin' around to do first," he concluded, "but sometime along in the afternoon me an' Bill will drift around that way to see how you're gittin' along. If they should happen to git you don't worry—me an' Bill, we'll take care of what's left of 'em."

  The Texan swung into the saddle: "So long, Cass."

  "So long, boy. Good luck to you—an' remember to watch Purdy's other hand."

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CINNABAR JOE TELLS A STORY

  Before Cinnabar Joe could fire again at the fleeing Purdy, his wife reached the door of the cabin and knocked his gun-barrel up so that the bullet sped harmlessly into the air. "Don't! Don't Joe!" she screamed, "he said—there was others, an' they'd——"

  "I don't care a damn what he said! If the others don't spill it, he will. It ain't no use, an' I'd ruther git it over with."

  Jennie noticed the dull hopelessness of the tone and her very soul seemed to die within her. "Oh, what is it, Joe?" she faltered, "what's Purdy got on you? What you gone an' done? Tell me, Joe!" The man laid the six-gun on the table and faced her with set lips. "Wait!" she cried before he could speak, "he said they was a woman—in the coulee. They'll be plenty of time to tell me, after you've got her here. Hurry! He said she'd rode a long ways. Chances is she ain't had nothin' to eat all day. An' while you're gone I'll git things fixed for her." Even as she talked, Jennie was busy at the stove, and without a word Cinnabar left the room, crossed the creek, and walked rapidly toward the mouth of the coulee.

  "It ain't no use," he repeated bitterly, "but, I'll git Purdy first—or he'll git me!"

  Back in the cabin Jennie completed her arrangements, and stepping to the door, stood with an arm against the jamb and allowed her eyes to travel slowly over the new horse corral and the unfinished stable. Joe's tools lay as he had left them when she had interrupted his work to give him the sandwich. Her fists clenched and she bit her lip to keep back the tears. The wind rustled the curtain in the window and she caught her breath in a great dry sob. "It is all a dream. It was too good to be true—oh—well." A horse splashed through the creek and she saw Cinnabar coming toward her leading a blaze-faced buckskin. A woman was lashed in the saddle, her feet secured by means of a rope that passed beneath the horse's belly, her hands lashed to the horn, and her body held in place by means of other strands of rope that passed from horn to cantle. Her hat was gone and she sagged limply forward, her disarranged hair falling over her face to mingle with the mane of the horse. She looked like a dead woman. Hastening to meet them, Jennie pushed aside the hair and peered up into the white face: "My Lord!" she cried, "it's—it's her!"

  Cinnabar stared: "Do you know her?" he asked in surprise.

  "Know her! Of course I know her! It's the pilgrim's girl—that he shot Purdy over. An' a pity he didn't kill him! That Tex Benton, he got 'em acrost the bad lands—an' I heard they got married over in Timber City."

  "Who Tex?"

  "No, the pilgrim, of course! Get to work now an' cut them ropes an' don't stand 'round askin' fool questions. Carry her in an' lay her on the bed, an' get the whisky, an' see if that water's boilin' an' pull off her boots, an' stick some more wood in the stove, an' then you clear out till I get her ondressed an' in bed!" And be it to the everlasting credit of Cinnabar Joe that he carried out these commands, each and several, in the order of their naming, and then he walked slowly toward the stable and sat down upon the newly hewn sill and rolled a cigarette. His tools lay ready to his hand but he stared at them without enthusiasm. When the cigarette was finished he rolled another.

  In the cabin Alice Endicott slowly opened her eyes. They swept the room wildly and fixed upon Jennie's face with a look of horror. "There, deary, you're all right now," Jennie patted her cheek reassuringly: "You're all right," she repeated. "Don't you remember me—Jennie Dodds, that was? At the Wolf River Hotel?"

  Alice's lips moved feebly: "It must have been a horrible dream—I thought I was tied up—and I broke loose and saw Long Bill and when I tried to get away there stood that horrible Purdy—and he said—" she closed her eyes and shuddered.

  "I guess it wasn't no dream, at that. Purdy brung you here. But you're safe an' sound now, deary. Jest you wait till I feed you some of this soup. I'll guarantee you ain't et this noon—an' prob'ly all day." Jennie moved to the stove and returned a moment later with a cup of steaming soup. Supporting her in a sitting posture, she doled out the hot liquid by spoonfuls. Several times during the process Alice endeavoured to speak but each time Jennie soothed her to silence, and when the cup was finally emptied her eyes closed wearily and she sank back onto the pillow.

  Presently her eyes opened: "Where—where is Tex?" she asked, in a scarcely audible tone. "Was he here, too?"

  "Tex! You mean Tex Benton? Law! I don't know! He ain't be'n seen sence that night back in Wolf River."

  "He didn't drown—and he's—somewhere—after Purdy—" the voice trailed off into silence and at the bedside Jennie waited until the regular breathing told her that the girl had sunk into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion. Then, with a heavy heart, she turned and stepped from the cabin, closing the door softly behind her.

  Out of the tail of his eye Cinnabar Joe saw his wife step from the doorway. Rising, hastily from the sill he seized his hammer and began to pound industriously upon a nail that had been driven home two days before. And as he pounded, he whistled. He turned at the sound of his wife's voice. She stood close beside him.

  "Now, Joe Banks, don't you stand there an' whistle like a fool! They ain't no more a whistle in your heart than they is in mine!" There was a catch in her voice, and she sank down upon the sill. The whistling ceased, and with rough tenderness Cinnabar laid a hand on her shoulder:

  "It's toug
h on you, girl—after gittin' such a good start. When I told you awhile back that there couldn't nothin' happen, I overlooked one bet—Purdy."

  "Oh, what is it, Joe? What's he got on you? Come, Joe, tell me all about it. I married you fer better or fer worse—I've took the better, an' I'd be a poor sport if I couldn't take the worse. Even if I didn't love you, Joe, I'd stick. But I do love you—no matter what you've got into. Tell me all about it, an' we'll work it out—you an' me. You ain't be'n rustlin' horses, have you? An' the bank stakin' us 'cause they trusted us to make good! Oh, Joe—you ain't! Have you Joe?"

  The fingers tightened reassuringly upon the woman's shoulder and reassuring were the words with which he answered the appeal of the eyes that looked imploringly into his own:

  "No, no, girl—not that. Not nothin' I've done sence—sence I growed up. I've played the game square sence then." The man seated himself beside her upon the sill: "It's a long story an' starts back, let's see, I was seventeen then, an' now I'm twenty-six—nine years ago, it was, I was workin' over near Goldfield in a mine. Everything was wide open them days an' I was jest a fool kid, spendin' my wages fast as I got 'em, same as all the rest of the miners.

  "Out of the riff-raff that worked there in the mines was four men I throw'd in with. They'd drifted in from God knows where, an' they'd all be'n cowpunchers, an' their talk run mostly to the open range. They was counted hard in a camp that was made up of hard men, an' they kep' pretty much to theirselves. Somehow or other they kind of took a shine to me, an' it wasn't long till the five of us was thick as thieves. When we'd be lickered up, makin' the rounds of the saloons, men would edge along an' give us room at the bar. They didn't want none of our meat; although we never made no gun-play, they always figgered we would.

  "Bein' a kid, that way, it made me feel mighty big an' important to be jammin' around with 'em. Lookin' back at it now, from my experience on the other side of the bar, I know that if that bunch had drifted into a place I was runnin' I'd spot how my guns laid under the bar so's I could reach 'em without lookin', you bet!