The Sixth Western Novel

by Jackson Gregory

  Hastily he covered all traces of his find and hurried along into Nacional. Bundy had recently gone into partnership with One Eye Perez, seeing big profits in the gaming tables. Jake Fanning burst in on the two of them, talking in Perez’s back room, and blabbed the news. So Bundy had two men to bribe to keep their mouths shut, promising them all sorts of things when once he got his hands on Palm Ranch. He managed for a time to keep Fanning sober and busy; he had slightly less trouble with Perez. And Bundy bent all thoughts toward getting hold of the ranch.

  Meantime Jake Fanning couldn’t resist the temptation to return to look at the ledge he had uncovered once. Again he got permission to break his journey at this halfway place, camping overnight. Greed got a mightier strangle grip on his covetous throat than ever before. Perhaps he thought he could make a better deal with Mrs. Kent than he could with Bundy; he always was a doublecrossing dog. At any rate he was a man who had a profound scorn for a woman’s intelligence and who estimated his own acumen vastly higher than facts warranted. He talked with her in his sly way and Mrs. Kent’s suspicions awoke.

  The next day Bundy called. How much she told him of her talk with Jake Fanning remains matter for surmise. Perhaps she said outright: “I know why you’re trying to get my place. There’s gold here and Fanning found it and told you. I was talking with him last night.” Bundy killed her. Later it was a simple matter for him to break through the flimsy back porch rail, to make it seem that she had fallen, to ride off without being seen.

  “Bundy killed her,” MacArthur droned on, “because he flew into a rage and because he was desperate anyhow and figured he pretty well had to. Desperate; yes, that’s the word. At the time when you and I and everyone else thought he had the world by the tail, he was on quicksand. He had spread out over too much territory, covering it too thin. On top of that he had been gambling his head off in mining shares, gambling and losing, and he was using not only his own money but funds he’d have to account for in the course of time, sums put up by other men he had drawn in with him.”

  Bill Dorn could understand this. He knew Bundy was essentially an adventurer, a gambler. Proud, arrogant, always sure of his destiny, obsessed by the idea that he was a sort of giant among pigmies and therefore unbeatable, he took chances another man would not take. His strength lay in his boldness, recklessness, courage, assurance, arrogance. But also in these qualities lurked the seeds of his weakness. He was impatient of the slightest delay or obstacle; he wanted results; he wanted them now. He was a crook and he was a hog. He was so big-headed, so pig-headed, that he had no fear either of other men or of mischance. He was of the sort of stuff of which the world’s dictators, especially the inefficient ones, are made.

  “I’ve noticed,” said MacArthur, “that a lot of crimes get committed because a first crime makes subsequent ones pretty darned near compulsory. He killed Mrs. Kent. Then maybe he saw that Fanning guessed it. He killed Fanning. There was Perez left. Perez wasn’t exactly a fool. Well, Bundy came to Nacional that night in time to see Lorna and One Eye, and maybe Bill, all squabbling in One Eye’s back room. Bundy shot him, hid his gun, had Smith and Fontana swear they saw Lorna do the shooting. It must,” he added with a wry grin, “have seemed a good idea at the time!”

  “Do you suppose he knew then who Lorna was?” asked Dorn.

  “Quien sabe? Offhand, I’d say yes. He had had many talks with Mrs. Kent; maybe she had told him her niece was coming, and he may have been on the lookout for her. It seems rather more than coincidence that he should have picked on her to take the gaff; whereas in case he did knew who she was he would figure that in incriminating her he was killing two birds with one stone. Had she been charged in Nacional with One Eye’s murder, I fancy he could have fixed things so that she would never have bothered up here.”

  “Diana knew that she was Lorna Brown. Did Bundy know, too?”

  Again Mac Arthur could only say, “Quien sabe?” This time he added, “Diana might have learned from Mrs. Kent her niece’s real name.”

  “You knew?”

  “Jinks told me.”

  Dorn pretended to glare at Lorna though under the table her hand, a willing prisoner to his, got a lover’s squeeze as he said, “She let everybody know but me!”

  “You were horrid, remember,” said Lorna.

  “And that other girl, down at Liberty?” asked Dorn.

  “Scared up for the occasion by Bundy. Taught her part by him. He no doubt had Lorna’s suitcase, the one that vanished in Nacional. There were odds and ends in it that went to the other girl, the handkerchief and letter Jinks found. He was doing what he could to cloud Lorna’s claim here in the eyes of all who were interested; he even had us worried, didn’t he? Then he had his hired watch dogs cart her off and put her on a train, done with her; made us think he had her corralled somewhere so that he could prove her claim when he got ready and buy from her.”

  “Shore,” piped up Jinks. “Me, head detective on this job, I figgered that an’ tipped the sheriff off. Huh, Bart?”

  MacArthur grinned and saluted. “Right, Nick.”

  He fell to drumming on the table again. Suddenly he stood up and reached for his hat.

  “I’ll drift now. I want to put Mex Fontana in a good safe place where I can have him on tap when I want him, which will be soon, and where Mike Bundy can’t get at him, and where I can keep my promise to him and ship him back across the border when I’m through with him. By the way, Bill,” he said curiously, “when I spoke of two kinds of pearls a while ago—well, I found one kind, the same that I found on Hank Smith, in Fontana’s pockets. Two of ’em.”

  “Well?” demanded Dorn.

  “What does it prove to you?”

  “What we all know already. That one thing we can’t lay at Bundy’s door, though I did lay it there when I went off half-cocked, was the raid on the ranch. Those were Diana Villaga’s pearls.”

  “Yep,” snapped the sheriff. “They were. But once I got Fontana talking he pretty near talked his head off. Didn’t I tell you Bundy was in a mighty bad hole financially? He was in deeper than even I guessed. And he had that girl crazy in love with him and—Anyhow, about two weeks ago Fontana saw Diana hand over to Bundy every damned heirloom the Villagas had that was worth a thin dime, and she handed the string of pearls along with the rest, and Bundy, short of cash, gave those pearls to Fontana and Hank Smith as overdue pay! Got it? It was Bundy who pulled that raid on you—and you galloped off, half-cocked like you say, to beat hell out of him just in order to hand him twenty thousand dollars for making a monkey out of you!”

  Dorn’s jaw dropped. But Jinks piped up first: “Bundy wouldn’t have blowed up the dam, knowin’ that thataway he run all kind o’ chances uncoverin’ that ledge!”

  “Bundy wasn’t with the raiders in person, I’ll grant you,” said MacArthur. “Blowing up the dam was no doubt just an inspiration on the lovely Diana’s part. I guess she was sorry when she found out what she had done. Maybe that’s why she sent for Bill and tried to clear Bundy altogether.”

  Bill Dorn came up to his feet like something jerked erect by a mighty spring, his eyes blazing. As he raced toward the door Lorna cried out after him: “Bill! Bill Dorn! Where are you going?”

  Over his shoulder he called back: “I’ve got to get to Liberty before Bundy cashes that check!”

  They hurried out to the porch and saw him running toward the corral, shouting as he ran to one of the boys out there to rope a horse for him. “He didn’t even get his hat!” exclaimed Lorna, and ran back for it.

  Old Cap Jinks tugged savagely at a lower lip.

  “Bundy’s got too much head start,” he muttered reluctantly. “Bill can’t make it in time.” And at the top of his voice he began calling Dorn back while Lorna, Bill’s hat in her hand, sped out to the corral.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Hard-riding Bill Dorn was in the saddle again, bound this time
upon an errand which he felt hopeless from the first jump of the lean, eager half-wild horse under him. Bundy should arrive in Liberty long before he could. But there was always the long chance, the thin, hundred-to-one chance, and Bill Dorn rode.

  Bundy, too, rode hard that morning, for his mood was savage. Yet, he would have ridden even harder had he known how his bright Lady Fortune, in whom he had ever so recklessly put his trust, was frowning. It was just that Bundy had no inkling of what hounds of retribution had been unleashed at his heels by Sheriff MacArthur.

  At County Line that morning, the sheriff, departing with Mex Fontana all but hanging on to his coat tails, had done little more than drop a hint. “You suckers! A gold mine here?” He had laughed in their faces.

  The thing which he hinted already lay close under the surface of more than one man’s thoughts. In five minutes MacArthur’s innuendo had flown like a croaking black crow all over camp; in ten minutes the place was bristling with the rapidly growing suspicion. Men, especially those who never had liked or trusted Bundy, exploded first into oaths, then into action. They broke through his high protecting fence, defying his guards with their preponderant numbers; they fell to with picks and shovels, prospecting for themselves on Bundy’s claims, gouging at the prospect hole he had made so much of, saying among themselves: “Suckers, huh? Well, if there’s gold here we’re going to see the color of it.” Two hours later the last man of them had hurled down his tools. “Where’s Bundy?” a strapping big chap thundered. “Where’n hell is Bundy?” they began shouting.

  In another ten minutes some two hundred infuriated men had saddled and mounted and buzzed out of County Line like a swarm of mad hornets. Bundy, someone had learned, had ridden over to Palm Ranch.

  Thus behind Mike Bundy rolled a thunder cloud, one of those black clouds trimmed with lightning. And in front of him, no less, were events shaping little to his liking. In Liberty Roger Rutherford, banker and staunch friend of Bill Dorn’s, was a much troubled man. Holding Dorn in friendly esteem, he hated the ground Mike Bundy walked on. And a newsmonger, one of the Antelope Valley boys, coming to the bank to borrow fifty dollars, had told him in detail of the recent fight and financial deal between Dorn and Bundy.

  “It’s just like old Sudden Bill,” growled Rutherford disgustedly. “Here he goes spending his last nickel to give his worst enemy a leg up, doing it without taking five minutes to think it over. Of all the—”

  “And the funny part of it,” said the Antelope Valley man, “is that while about half of County Line agrees with Bill that Bundy had nothing to do with the raid on Palm Ranch, the other half swears Bundy planned and directed the whole thing, just arranging to have the job done while he was somewhere else. My hunch is that he’s made a ring-tailed monkey of old Roll-Along Dorn.”

  “That’s my hunch, too,” pondered Rutherford when alone. “That would be Bundy’s way. And later on, if Bill finds such to be the fact, he can bite his nails all he wants but he won’t get his twenty thousand back.”

  So, being the man he was and a friend of Dorn’s and not of Bundy’s, he went into prolonged and sober session with himself. In the end he slapped his desk, arose briskly and bestirred himself, demanding of the only man present—namely Roger Rutherford, banker: “What’s the good of a power of attorney anyhow, if you don’t use it?”

  When Bundy arrived, dusty and curt, striding in hurriedly, Rutherford was ready for him. Bundy slapped down Dorn’s check, saying in the tone of a disgruntled employer to some whippersnapper of a counter-jumper:

  “Cash, Rutherford. Give it to me in the largest denomination of bank notes you’ve got. And I’m in a hurry.”

  “You look it,” said Rutherford coolly. In leisurely fashion he drew the check to him and looked at it. “No can do, Bundy,” he said, and shoved the check back. “There’s no such amount of money as that in Bill Dorn’s account.”

  “What the hell!” stormed Bundy. “Anybody that knows Bill Dorn knows that his checks are good. Look here, Rutherford, if you’re trying to run some sort of a blazer on me you’d better pull your horns in. I want that money and I want it now—I’ve got to have it, and, by God, I’m going to have it!”

  “Yes?” said Rutherford mildly, and slid his hand under the counter. He somehow felt better when it closed on the worn walnut grip of an old friend. The last time he had seen Bundy the man had looked worried, hard-pressed; today he was harassed, goaded, maddened.

  “You mean your damned bank hasn’t got that much in cash?” asked Bundy, holding himself in check.

  “We’ve got the money all right,” returned Rutherford.

  “Then you mean that Dorn, the skunk, gave me a worthless check?”

  “No. The check wasn’t worthless when he wrote it.” Rutherford pursed his lips; he was beginning to enjoy this. “Bill, the son-of-a-gun, should have told me he was figuring on drawing so large a check. You see, the money was there when he was in to see me; in fact it was there until about half an hour ago. As it happens, Mr. Bundy, I hold Bill’s power of attorney. I’ve been going over some of his papers this morning. A little while ago I found it advisable—strictly in Bill’s best interests, you know—to divert twenty thousand dollars from his account. It’s just one of those things, Mr. Bundy. But surely to you a delay over so small a sum can work no great inconvenience?”

  Slowly a congested wrath empurpled Bundy’s face. Rutherford saw, and the seeing increased his enjoyment, that it meant a tremendous lot to Mike Bundy.

  Bundy’s eyes clashed with Rutherford’s, started roving, came back to clash again, and Rutherford’s whole body stiffened. For an instant he believed that his infuriated caller was on the verge of demanding his money at the muzzle of a gun. Then Bundy caught up his check and without a word went out. For a moment he stood in the road, his hands jammed fiercely into his pockets, his head down, a study in bafflement. Then he swung up into his saddle and spurred out of town.

  “Headed back where he came from,” mused Rutherford, no longer complacent but scenting trouble. “And going like hell was after him. Well, maybe it is. Crazy mad? He’ll kill that horse; the fool didn’t even have sense left to change.”

  It was perhaps an hour later that Bill Dorn came in, hurried like Bundy, demanding by way of greeting whether Bundy had called for his money. When Rutherford nodded Dorn lifted his shoulders in a high shrug. “I’m stuck again,” he grunted, and stood for a moment scowling at the big hat he had set spinning on a horny forefinger.

  “Squat, Bill, and we’ll talk.” Dorn looked at him sharply, saw that the tale was not yet all told, and slid into a chair. “Maybe you’ll want to knock my head off, Bill; you’d be in your rights. Here’s what I did.”

  When he had done, Bill Dorn made no gesture toward knocking his head off; instead a broad grin with a flash of strong white teeth was like a gleam of sunshine across his bronzed face.

  “Roger, you old highwayman,” he exploded, “let’s play we’re both of good old sunny Latin stock; come and let me kiss you on both cheeks!”

  He went away in high good-humor. Having told Rutherford how things stood, having learned that Bundy had ridden back in the general direction of Palm Ranch and County Line beyond, Dorn went to the Liberty stable, got a fresh horse and turned eagerly homeward. Home, by thunder; that’s what it was, what it was going to be. If a man wanted to live right close up to the threshold of Heaven, why, Palm Ranch was the place!

  But this afternoon that same Palm Ranch was to have the seeming of standing on the portico of hell. For Mike Bundy, hell-bent, spurred a spent horse into the yard well ahead of Bill Dorn’s return. He took the steps in two strides, he flung the door open without thinking to knock, he burst in on Lorna and Cap Jinks deep in talk, and shouted at them:

  “Where’s Bill Dorn?”

  Lorna jumped up from her big chair and recoiled from him, backing away until her shoulders brought up against the wall, her eyes
terrified. Jinks, too, stood up, bristling.

  “Take it easy, Bundy,” he snapped. “What’s eatin’ you?”

  But Bundy couldn’t drag his eyes away from Lorna’s that were so eloquent of her abhorrence and fear.

  “What is it?” he demanded sharply, though already he must have known, so eloquent of her thoughts was the look on her blanched face. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “N-nothing,” said Lorna. Even to speak one word to the man, three times murderer, was difficult. She began moving still farther away from him, edging toward the door.

  “Stop!” he commanded in such a tone that she did stop. He whisked a look at Jinks. “What’s come over you two?”

  “You look here, Bundy,” retorted Jinks; “you’re done for an’ you know it. Take a tip from a feller that don’t wish you any good an’ dust to hell out o’ here while you can.”

  “So!” said Bundy and slammed his big tired body into Lorna’s chair. But something in his eyes held the girl from an attempt at headlong flight, a something that flared up hot and wicked and rooted her to her place. “So!” said Bundy. “Things have happened, have they?”

  “You’re darn’ tootin’!” returned a vehement Jinks.

  “The place looks deserted. Where’s everybody?”

  Jinks couldn’t resist the temptation. “The boys are down by the dam, Bundy! Somebody blowed it up, maybe you heard? An’ the runaway water done a right nifty job gougin’ out the bank where the big bend is.”

  Bundy’s expression did not change. He asked no questions about the gouged bank. He pushed his hat far back and ran a hasty hand over his wet brow. Then he asked in a voice which had abruptly gone quiet, staring fixedly at Lorna: “Why do you look at me like that? Are you afraid?”

  “I—I’m not afraid.”

  “You lie,” said Bundy. “Where’s Josefa?”

  “She’s gone with the others—to the dam.”