by Zane Grey
He came to his horse in front of the hotel, snatched the tie-rope loose and went up into the saddle without bothering about the spurs hanging over the horn. His horse plunged under him and in another moment horse and rider were racing, even as Sanchia Murray’s white mare had carried her, out toward Big Run.
He came as close to killing a horse that day as he had ever come in his life. His face grew sterner as he flung the barren miles behind him and higher and higher surged the bitterness in his heart. If Longstreet had found gold, and he believed that he had, it would have meant so much to Helen. He had seen how she did without little things; he had felt that she was just exactly the finest girl in all of the world; it had seemed to him only the right and logical thing that she should own a gold mine. And now it was to go to Jim Courtot and Sanchia Murray. Sanchia instead of Helen! At the moment he felt that he could have choked the lying heart out of the woman’s soft white throat. As for Jim Courtot, already he and Howard hated each other as perforce two men of their two types must come to do. Here again was ample cause for fresh hatred; he drove his horse on furiously, anxious to come upon Courtot, thanking God in his heart that he could look to his enemy for scant words and a quick gun. There come to men at times situations when the only solution is to be found in shooting a way out. Now, more than ever before in his life, was Alan Howard ready for this direct method.
Arrived in Big Run he rode straight on until he came to Tony Moraga’s. Here, if anywhere in the settlement, he could hope to find his man. A glance showed him one horse only at the rack, a lean sorrel that he recognized. It was Yellow Barbee’s favourite mount, and it struck him that if there were further hard riding to be done, here was the horse to satisfy any man. He threw himself from the saddle, left his own horse balancing upon its trembling legs, and stepped into the saloon.
Moraga was dozing behind his bar. Yellow Barbee sat slumped over a table, his lean, grimy fingers twisting an empty glass. No one else was in the room.
‘Courtot been here?’ demanded Howard of Moraga.
Moraga shook his head. Howard glanced toward Barbee. The boy’s face was sullen, his eyes clouded. He glowered at Moraga and, turning his morose eyes upon Howard, snapped out:
‘Moraga lies. Jim was here a little while ago. He’s just beat it with a lot of his rotten crowd, Monte Devine and Bettins and True. They’re up to something crooked.’
‘I forgot.’ Moraga laughed greasily. ‘Jim was in the back room there talking to Sanchia! Nice girl, no?’ he taunted Barbee.
‘I’ll kill you some day, Moraga,’ cursed Barbee thickly.
Howard turned back to the door.
‘I want your horse, Barbee,’ he said quickly. ‘All right?’
‘Go to it,’ Barbee flashed out. ‘And if you ain’t man enough to get Jim Courtot pretty damn soon, I am!’
‘Keep your shirt on, kid,’ Howard told him coolly. ‘And keep your hands off. And for God’s sake, stop letting that woman make a fool of you.’
Barbee cursed in his throat and with burning eyes watched the swing doors snap after the departing cattleman. Howard, his anger standing higher and hotter, threw himself to the back of Barbee’s roan and left Big Run riding furiously from the jump. He knew the horse; it could stand the pace across the few miles and there was no time to lose. There was scant enough likelihood as matters were of his coming to Last Ridge before Courtot’s crowd. But the men might have failed to change to fresh horses; in that case his chance was worth something. And, always, until a game be played out, it is anybody’s game.
As he rode out toward the Last Ridge trail his one thought was of Jim Courtot. Little by little he lost sight of other matters. He had fought with Jim Courtot before now; he had seen the spit of the gambler’s gun twice, he had knocked him down. Courtot had hunted him, he had gone more than half-way to meet the man. And yet that which had occurred just now had happened again and again before; he came seeking Courtot, and Courtot had just gone. It began almost to seem that Courtot was fleeing him, that he had no stomach for a face-to-face meeting; that what he wanted was to step out unexpectedly from a corner, to shoot from the dark. This long-drawn-out, fruitless seeking baffled and angered. It was time, he thought, high time that he and Jim Courtot shot their way out of an unendurable mess. At every swinging stride of Barbee’s roan he grew but the more impatient for the end of the ride and the face of Jim Courtot.
The broad sun flattened against the low hills and sank out of sight. Dusk came and thickened and the stars began to flare out. Against the darkening skyline before him the Last Ridge country reared itself sombrely. A little breeze went dancing and shivering through the dry mesquite and greasewood. His horse stumbled and slowed down. They had come to the first of the rocky ground. He should be at the mouth of Dry Gulch in half an hour. And there he would find the men he had followed; they had beat him to it, for not a glimpse of them had he had. They were, then, first on the ground. That was something, he conceded. But it was not everything.
At last he dismounted and tied his horse to a bush. About him were thick shadows, before him the tall bulwark of the uplands. His feet were in a trail that he knew. He went on up, as silently, as swiftly as he could. Presently he stood on the edge of the same flat on which the Longstreets had made their camp, though a good half-mile to the east of the canvas shack. A wide black void across the plateau was Dry Gulch. Upon its nearer bank, not a hundred yards from him, a dry wood fire blazed brightly; he must have seen it long ago except that a shoulder of the mountain had hidden it. It burned fiercely, thrusting its flames high, sending its sparks skyward. In its flickering circle of light he saw dark objects which he knew must be the forms of men. He did not count them, merely prayed within his heart that Courtot was among them, and came on. He heard the men talking. He did not listen for words, since words did not matter now. He hearkened for a certain voice.
The voices broke off and a man stood up. When he was within a score of paces of the fire Howard stopped. The man’s thick squat form was clearly outlined. Unmistakably this was Monte Devine. There were two or three other forms squatting; it was impossible to distinguish a crouching man from a boulder.
‘That you, Monte?’ called Howard.
‘Good guess,’ came Monte’s heavy, insolent voice. ‘You’ve got one on me, though, pardner.’
‘Courtot here?’ demanded Howard.
Monte Devine laughed then.
‘Hello, Al,’ he returned lightly. ‘You and Jim sure play a great little game of tag, don’t you?’
‘He isn’t here, then?’
‘Left an hour ago. There’s just me and Bettins and True on the job. Come on in and make yourself at home.’
Howard came on slowly. Monte might be telling the truth, and then again lying came easy to him. Every dark blot was searched out suspiciously by Howard’s frowning eyes. Again, having read what was in Howard’s mind, Monte laughed.
‘He ain’t here, Al,’ he insisted. ‘You and him will have to make a date if you ever get together.’
The two other men rose from the ground and stood a little aside. No doubt they were True and Bettins; still neither had spoken and in this uncertain light either might be Courtot.
‘Hello, True,’ said Howard shortly. True’s voice answered him. ‘Hello, Bettins,’ he said, and it was Bettin’s voice replying.
‘Where did Jim go?’ he asked.
‘Search me,’ retorted Monte Devine. Then, a hint of a jeer in his voice, ‘Going to stay out there in the dark all night? ‘Fraid Jim’ll be hiding out waiting to pot you?’
The other men laughed.
‘That’s his sort of play,’ muttered Alan coolly.
He took his time to look about. Little by little the mystery shrouding this and that object dissolved and showed him a rock or a bush. He heard a snapping bit of brush off to the right and wheeled toward it. It
was a horse moving. He circled the fire and went to it. Beyond were two other horses, only three in all. Then he shrugged his shoulders and jammed his revolver angrily into its holster and came back to the figures by the fire.
‘Longstreet is a friend of mine,’ he said shortly. ‘I am going to see him through, Monte.’
‘Who’s Longstreet?’ demanded Monte.
‘I guess you know. He’s the man who found gold up here yesterday. He’s the man Sanchia Murray brought to you at the Montezuma House. He owns these diggings that you and Jim Courtot and your crowd are trying to jump to-night. Better think it over and jump somewhere else, Monte.’
Monte Devine appeared to be meditating. Howard’s angry thoughts were racing. Rage baffled was but baffled again. There seemed nothing concrete that he could lay his hands on; again Jim Courtot had come and gone. To drive the men off the land, even could he succeed in doing it would so far as he could see be barren of any desired result. There was a law in the country, and that law would see the man through who had properly filed on his claim. And yet, for all that, his blood grew hot at the thought of all of this riff-raff of Jim Courtot squatting here upon that which by right was Helen’s.
‘I reckon we’ll stay and see it through,’ said Monte at last.
Howard turned and strode away. True laughed. But Howard had seen something showing whitely just yonder in the black void of Dry Gulch. There was the spot where Longstreet’s claim lay. He went down into the gulch and to the thing that he had seen dimly. It was a stake and a bit of white paper thrust into the split, and showed him that the three men had not mistaken the spot. Here, at last, was something concrete upon which a man, hot with his anger, could lay his hands. He wrenched it away and hurled it far from him. He saw another stake and another and these like the first he snatched up and pitched wrathfully as far as he could throw them.
‘That’s something, if it isn’t much,’ he muttered to himself.
The others had held back, watching him. He could hear them speaking quickly among themselves, Bettins and True angrily. Monte’s voice was low and steady. But it was Monte who came on first.
‘Hold on there a minute,’ called Howard sharply. ‘I’m not asking any company down here. Here I am going to stick until morning. By that time, or I miss my guess, this neck of the woods will be full of people who have heard that something’s doing here. There’ll be a handful of your crowd, but there’ll be twice as many square-shooters. You’ll stand back with the crowd and take your chance with what is left after Longstreet gets his, or you’ll play crooked and take another chance, that of a long rope and a quick drop. Think it over, boys.’
‘Better clean out while you can, Al,’ said Monte. His own voice had sharpened. ‘We’re coming down to put them stakes back.’
Howard withdrew half a dozen steps into the deeper shadows of the gulch.
‘Come ahead when you’re ready,’ he retorted. ‘I can see you fine up there against the skyline. Start it going any time, Monte.’
His was the position of a man in desperate need for action and with little enough scope for his desire. But he had the hope that Longstreet and Pony Lee might possibly have been the first at the court-house; were that to prove to be the case and were he on the ground when they came in the morning, he would in the end have prevented a tangle and the long delay and intricate trouble of dispossessing Courtot’s agents. Further, his mood was one in which he would have been glad to have Monte ‘start it going.’
Monte and his companions spoke quietly among themselves a second time. Then, with never another word to him, they withdrew and disappeared. An immense silence shut down about him. He knew that they had not gone far and that they would be heard from before long. For they were not the men to let go so easily. But Monte Devine, plainly the brains of the crowd, was a cool hand who played as safe a game as circumstances allowed.
He sat down with his back to a fallen boulder. He was thinking that perhaps they were waiting for the dawn; by daylight they would have all the best of it and might close in on him from three sides. But when the night wind blowing up the gulch brought him the smell of dead leaves burning, when he saw a quick tongue of flame on one bank and then another, like a reflection in a mirror, on the other bank, he understood. It was like a Monte Devine play. Presently the dry grass would be burning all along the draw; the flames would sweep by him and in their light he would stand forth as in the light of day. Then, if there were a single rifle among the three men, he would have not so much as a chance to fight. Even if they had nothing but revolvers, the odds were all on their side.
And it was like Jim Courtot’s play, too, to clear out and leave his agents to deal with the man he hated. All in the world that Courtot ever wanted was to win; the means were nothing. If his enemy went down by another man’s bullet than his own, so much the better for Jim Courtot, who had always enough to answer for as it was.
‘This belongs to Helen Longstreet,’ Howard told himself steadily. ‘I am going to hold it for her if it’s in the cards.’
He withdrew a little further. Then, with a sudden inspiration, he clambered silently up the sloping bank. The men who had lighted the fires would have circled about to come upon him from the other side. He was right. As he thrust his head above the top of the bank he saw two figures running in the direction that he had judged they would take. He pulled himself up. A loosened rock rolled noisily into the gulch. They heard it and stopped. He knew when they saw him and knew who they were as he heard them call to each other. They were Ed True and Monte Devine. And Ed True, as he called, whipped out his revolver and fired.
‘He’s on this side, Bettins,’ called Monte loudly. ‘Take your time.’
He had not fired nor had Howard. Ed True, however, lacked the cool nerve and emptied his revolver. Monte cursed him for a fool.
‘You couldn’t hit a barn that far off in this light,’ he shouted. ‘Take your time, can’t you?’
Howard’s lips tightened. That was Monte Devine for you. Steady and cool as a rock.
‘We’ve got the best of you, Al,’ called Monte warningly. ‘Better crawl out while you got the chance.’
‘Go to hell!’ Howard told him succinctly. And knowing that the man had been right when he had said you couldn’t hit a barn at that distance and in that light, he came forward suddenly. For in a little the burning grass would be behind him and outlined against it the target of his body would be a mark for anybody to hit.
Suddenly, having reloaded, True fired again. But he was not so hurried now. He fired once and waited. This time the bullet had not flown so far afield as the first shots; Howard heard its shrill cleaving of the air. He saw that Monte was moving to one side. Again he understood the man’s intention. Monte planned to put him between two fires. Howard jerked up his own gun.
The two explosions came simultaneously, his and Monte’s. There was a brief silence. Plainly no bullet had yet found its mark. True fired again. His bullet whined by and Howard realized that the man was coming closer every time. He turned a little and, ‘taking his time,’ as Monte was doing, answered True’s fire. There was a little squeal of pain from True, a grunt of satisfaction from Howard, a second shot from Monte. Howard saw that True had spun about and fallen. He saw, further, that Monte had come a step nearer and had stopped. In a little Bettins would be to reckon with. It was still close enough for a chance hit, too far for absolute accuracy. Walking slowly, realizing that he had but four shots left and that those gone he would never be given time to reload, Howard came half a dozen paces toward Monte before he stopped. He heard True’s groaning curse; a spat of flame from where the man lay showed him that he was still to be counted on. But his shooting would be apt to be wild and he must be forgotten until Devine was dealt with.
He was near enough to make out the gesture as Monte raised his arm. And he was ready. Howard fired first; he saw the flare a
nd heard the report of Monte’s gun and knew that he had missed. But Monte had not missed. There was a searing pain across Howard’s outer left arm, near the shoulder. The pain came and was gone, like the flash of the gun; remained only a mounting rage in Howard’s brain. Three shots left and three men still to fight. A shot for each man and none to waste, or the tale would be told for Alan Howard. And there would be occasion for Jim Courtot’s jeering laugh tomorrow.
Before the smoke had cleared from Monte’s gun Howard leaped closer, and at this close range fired. He saw Monte reel back. He knew that Ed True was still shooting, but he did not care. Monte was stumbling, saving himself from falling, straightening again, lifting his gun. But before the swaying figure could answer the call of the cool brain directing it, Howard sprang in upon him and struck with his clubbed revolver. And Monte Devine, his finger crooking to the trigger as the blow fell, went down heavily from the impact of the gun-barrel against his head. Ed True emptied his cylinder and cursed and began filling it again.
Howard stood a moment over Monte Devine. Then he took up the fallen revolver in his left hand and turned to True.
‘Chuck your gun to me, Ed,’ he commanded sternly, ‘or I’ll get you right next time.’
True damned him violently. Then he groaned, and a moment later there was the sound of his revolver hurled from him, clattering among the stones. Howard took it up, shoved it into his pocket and turned toward the gulch. While he sought for a sight of Bettins he hastily filled the empty chambers of his own weapon.
Now only he realized how brief a time had elapsed since Ed True’s first shot. The grass fire was blazing, but had crept up the draw only a few feet. And Bettins had not yet had the time to come from the other side, down into the gulch and up on this side. He saw Bettins; the man was standing still staring toward his fallen companions. The fire leaped higher, its light danced out in widening circles, touching at last the spot where Howard stood, where Ed True and Monte Devine lay.