The Big-Town Round-Up

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "A day or two. Oh, Johnnie!"

  "Sure. I ain't gonna wait. Wha's the matter with to-morrow?"

  "I haven't any clothes made," she evaded, and added by way of diversion, "I always liked that kinda golden down on your cheeks."

  "The stores are full of 'em. An' we ain't talkin' about my whiskers—not right now."

  "You're a nice old thing," she whispered, flashing into unexpected dimples, and she rewarded him for his niceness in a way he thought altogether desirable.

  A crisp, strong step sounded outside. The door opened and Clay came into the room.

  He looked at Kitty. "Thank Heaven, you're safe," he said.

  "Johnnie rescued me," she cried. "He got shot—in the shoulder."

  The men looked at each other.

  "Bad, Johnnie?"

  "Nope. A plumb li'l' scratch. Wha's the matter with you?"

  A gleam of humor flitted into the eyes of the cattleman. "I ran into a door."

  "Say, Clay," Johnnie burst out, "I'll betcha can't guess."

  His friend laughed in amiable derision, "Oh, you kids in the woods. I knew it soon as I opened the door."

  He walked up to the girl and took her hand. "You got a good man,

  Kitty. I'm wishin' you all the joy in the world."

  Her eyes flashed softly. "Don't I know I've got a good man, and I'm going to be happier than I deserve."

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CLAY LAYS DOWN THE LAW

  Tim Muldoon, in his shirt-sleeves, was busy over a late breakfast when his mother opened the door of the flat to let in Clay Lindsay.

  The policeman took one look at the damaged face and forgot the plate of ham and eggs that had just been put before him.

  "Yuh've been at it again!" he cried, his Irish eyes lighting up with anticipatory enjoyment.

  "I had a little set-to with friend Jerry last night," the Westerner explained.

  "Another?"

  "Now don't you blame me. I'm a peaceful citizen—not lookin' for trouble a li'l' bit. But I don't aim to let this Durand comb my hair with a rake."

  "What's the trouble now?"

  "You heard about the girl abducted in an auto from the Bronx?"

  "Uh-huh! Was Jerry in that?"

  "He was. I'll tell you the whole story, Tim."

  "Meet my mother first. Mother—Mr. Lindsay. Yuh've heard me talk av him."

  Mrs. Muldoon's blue Irish eyes twinkled. She was a plump and ample woman, and her handshake was firm and strong.

  "I have that. Tim thinks yuh a wonder, Mr. Lindsay."

  "Oh, he's prejudiced. You see he doesn't like the Big Mogul Jerry."

  "Well, he's sure a booster for yuh."

  Clay told the story of his encounter with Durand on the train and of his subsequent meetings with him at the Sea Siren and on the night of the poker party. He made elisions and emendations that removed the bedroom scene from the tale.

  "So that's when yuh met Annie Millikan," Tim said. "I was wonderin' how yuh knew her."

  "That's when I met her. She's one fine girl, Tim, a sure-enough thoroughbred. She has fought against heavy odds all her life to keep good and honest. And she's done it."

  "She has that," agreed Mrs. Muldoon heartily. "Annie is a good girrl.

  I always liked her."

  "I'd bet my last chip on Annie. So last night I went straight to her. She wouldn't throw down 'Slim' Jim, but she gave me an address. I went there and met Durand."

  "With his gang?" asked Tim.

  "No; I waited till they had gone. I locked myself in a room alone with him. He took eight shots at me in the dark and then we mixed."

  "Mother o' Moses!" exclaimed the policeman. "In the dark?"

  "No. I had switched the lights on."

  "You bate him! I can see it in your eye!" cried Muldoon, pounding the table so that the dishes jumped.

  "You'll have to ask him about that." Clay passed to more important facts. "When I reached home Kitty was there. They had dropped her in the Park to make a safe getaway."

  "That's good."

  "But Tim—when Annie Millikan gave me the address where Jerry Durand was, the driver of my taxi saw her. The man was 'Slim' Jim."

  Muldoon sat up, a serious look on his face. "Man, yuh spilt the beans that time. How'd you ever come to do it? They'll take it out on Annie, the dogs." The eyes of the policeman blazed.

  "Unless we stand by her."

  "Sure, and we'll do that. But how?"

  "First we've got to get her away from there to some decent place where she'll be safe."

  Mrs. Muldoon spoke up. "And that's easy. She'll just take our spare bedroom and welcome."

  Tim put an arm caressingly over his mother's shoulders. "Ain't she the best little sport ever, Mr. Lindsay?" he said proudly.

  Clay smiled. "She sure enough grades 'way up."

  "It's blarney yuh're both talkin'," snorted Mrs. Muldoon. "Sure the girrl needs a mother and a home. An' I don't doubt she'll pay her way."

  "Then that's settled. Will you see Annie, Tim? Or shall I?"

  "We'll both see her. But there's another thing. Will she be safe here?"

  "I'm goin' to have a talk with 'Slim' Jim and try to throw a scare into him. I'll report to you what he says."

  They took a trolley to the lodging-house where Annie lived.

  The girl looked pale and tired. Clay guessed she slept little. The memory of "Slim" Jim's snarling had stood out in the darkness at the foot of her bed.

  "Is this a pinch?" she asked Tim with a pert little tilt to her chin.

  "Yuh can call it that, Annie. Mother wants yuh to come and stay with us."

  "And what would I do that for, Mr. Tim Muldoon?" she asked promptly, the color flushing her cheeks.

  "Because you're not safe here. That gang will make yuh pay somehow for what yuh did."

  "And if your mother took me in they'd make her pay. You'd maybe lose your job."

  "I'd find another. I'm thinkin' of quittin' anyhow."

  "Say, whadya think I am? I'll not go. I can look out for myself."

  "I don't think they'd get Tim," put in Clay. "I'm goin' to see Collins and have a talk with him."

  "You can't salve Jim with soft soap."

  "Did I mention soft soap?"

  "I heard some one most killed Jerry Durand last night," said Annie abruptly, staring at Lindsay's bruised face. "Was it you?"

  "Yes," said the Arizonan simply.

  "Did you get the girl?"

  "They dropped her to save themselves. My friend found her with a man and took her from him."

  "I hope you did up Jerry right!" cried Annie, a vindictive flash in her dark eyes.

  "I haven't called him up this mo'nin' to see how he's feelin'," said Clay whimsically. "Miss Annie, we're worried some about you. Mrs. Muldoon is right anxious for us to get you to come and stay awhile with her. She's honin' to have a li'l' girl to mother. Don't you reckon you can go?"

  "I—I wish yuh'd come, Annie," blurted out Tim, looking down his nose.

  Tears brimmed in Annie's eyes. To Clay it seemed there was something hungry in the look the girl gave Muldoon. She did not want his pity alone. She would not have their hospitality if they were giving it to a girl they despised and wanted to reform.

  "I'm an alley cat you're offerin' to take in and feed, Tim Muldoon," she charged suspiciously.

  "Yuh're the girl—my mother loves." He choked on the impulsive avowal he had almost made and finished the sentence awkwardly. It was impossible for him to escape the natural male instinct to keep his feelings out of words.

  The girl's face softened. Inside, she was a river of tenderness flowing toward the Irishman. "I'll go to your mother, Tim, if she really wants me," she cried almost in a murmur.

  "You're shoutin' now, Miss Annie," said Clay, smiling. "She sure wants you. I'll hit the trail to have that talk with Jim Collins."

  He found "Slim" Jim at his stand. That flashily dressed young crook eyed him with a dogged and wary defiance. He had just come fr
om a call at the bedside of Jerry Durand and he felt a healthy respect for the man who could do what this light-stepping young fellow had done to the champion rough-houser of New York. The story Jerry had told was of an assault from behind with a club, but this Collins did not accept at par. There were too many bruises on his sides and cuts on his face to be accounted for in any way except by a hard toe-to-toe fight.

  "Mo'nin', Mr. Collins. I left you in a hurry last night and forgot to pay my bill. What's the damage?" asked Clay in his gently ironic drawl.

  "Slim" Jim growled something the meaning of which was drowned in an oath.

  "You say it was a free ride? Much obliged. That's sure fair enough,"

  Clay went on easily. "Well, I didn't come to talk to you about that.

  I've got other business with you this mo'nin'."

  The chauffeur looked at him sullenly and silently.

  "Suppose we get inside the cab where we can talk comfortably," Clay proposed.

  "Say, I'll stay right where I'm at," announced "Slim" Jim.

  The cattleman opened the cab door. "Oh, no, we'll go inside," he said softly.

  The men looked at each other and battled. The eye is a more potent weapon than the rapier. The shallow, shifty ones of the gunman fell before the deep, steady ones of the Arizonan. "Slim" Jim, with a touch of swagger to save his face, stepped into the cab and sat down. Clay followed him, closing the door.

  "Have you seen Jerry Durand this sunny mo'nin'?" asked Lindsay with surface amiability.

  "Wot's it to you?" demanded Collins.

  "Not a thing. Nothin' a-tall," agreed Clay. "But it may be somethin' to you. I'm kinda wonderin' whether I'll have to do to you what I did to him."

  "Slim" Jim was not a man of his hands. He could use a gun on occasion, if the advantage was all in his favor, but he strictly declined personal encounters at closer quarters. Now he reached for the door hastily.

  A strong, sinewy hand fell on his arm and tightened, slightly twisting the flesh as the fingers sank deeper.

  Collins let out a yell. "Gawd! Don't do that. You're killin' me."

  "Beg yore pardon. An accident. If I get annoyed I'm liable to hurt without meanin' to," apologized Clay suavely. "I'll come right down to brass tacks, Mr. Collins. You're through with Annie Millikan. Understand?"

  "Say, wot t'ell's this stuff you're pipin'? Who d' you t'ink youse are?"

  "Never mind who I am. You'll keep away from Annie from now on—absolutely. If you bother her—if anything happens to her—well, you go and take a good long look at Durand before you make any mistakes."

  "You touch me an' I'll croak you. See!" hissed Collins. "It won't be rough-house stuff with me. I'll fix youse so the gospel sharks'll sing gather-at-the-river for you."

  "A gun-play?" asked Clay pleasantly. "Say, there's a shootin'-gallery round the corner. Come along. I wantta show you somethin'."

  "Aw, go to hell!"

  The sinewy hand moved again toward the aching muscles of the gunman.

  Collins changed his mind hurriedly.

  "All right. I'll come," he growled.

  Clay tossed a dollar down on the counter, took a .32, and aimed at the row of ducks sailing across the gallery pool. Each duck went down as it appeared. He picked up a second rifle and knocked over seven or eight mice as they scampered across the target screen. With a third gun he snuffed the flaming eye from the right to the left side of the face that grinned at him, then with another shot sent it back again. He smashed a few clay pipes by way of variety. To finish off with he scored six center shots in a target and rang a bell each time. Not one single bullet had failed to reach its mark.

  The New York gunman had never seen such speed and accuracy. He was impressed in spite of the insolent sneer that still curled his lip.

  "Got a six-shooter—a fohty-five?" asked Clay of the owner of the gallery.

  "No."

  "Sorry. I'm not much with a rifle, but I'm a good average shot with a six-gun. I kinda take to it natural."

  They turned and walked back to the cab. Collins fell into the Bowery strut.

  "Tryin' to throw a scare into me," he argued feebly.

  "Me? Oh, no. You mentioned soft music and the preacher. Mebbeso. But it's liable to be for you if you monkey with the buzz-saw. I'm no gun-sharp, but no man who can't empty a revolver in a shade better than two seconds and put every bullet inside the rim of a cup at fifteen yards wants to throw lead at me. You see, I hang up my hat in Arizona. I grew up with a six-gun by my side."

  "I should worry. This is little old New York, not Arizona," the gangman answered.

  "That's what yore boss Durand thought. What has it brought him but trouble? Lemme give you something to chew on. New York's the biggest city of the biggest, freest country on God's green footstool. You little sewer rats pull wires and think you run it. Get wise, you poor locoed gink. You run it about as much as that fly on the wheel of yore taxi drives the engine. Durand's the whole works by his way of it, but when some one calls his bluff see where he gets off."

  "He ain't through with you yet," growled "Slim" Jim sulkily.

  "Mebbe not, but you—you're through with Annie." Clay caught him by the shoulder and swung him round. His eyes bored chilly into the other man. "Don't you forget to remember not to forget that. Let her alone. Don't go near her or play any tricks to hurt her. Lay off for good. If you don't—well, you'll pay heavy. I'll be on the job personal to collect."

  Clay swung away and strode down the street, light-heeled and lithe, the sap of vital youth in every rippling muscle.

  "Slim" Jim watched him, snarling hatred. If ever he got a good chance at him it would be curtains for the guy from Arizona, he swore savagely.

  CHAPTER XXV

  JOHNNIE SAYS HE IS MUCH OBLIGED

  Beatrice, just back from riding with Bromfield, stood on the steps in front of the grilled door and stripped the gloves from her hands.

  "I'm on fire with impatience, Bee," he told her. "I can hardly wait for that three weeks to pass. The days drag when I'm not with you."

  He was standing a step or two below her, a graceful, well-groomed figure of ease, an altogether desirable catch in the matrimonial market. His dark hair, parted in the middle, was beginning to thin, and tiny crow's-feet radiated from the eyes, but he retained the light, slim figure of youth. It ought not to be hard to love Clarendon Bromfield, his fiancée reflected. Yet he disappointingly failed to stir her pulses.

  She smiled with friendly derision. "Poor Clary! You don't look like a

  Vesuvius ready to erupt. You have such remarkable self-control."

  His smile met hers. "I can't go up and down the street ringing a bell like a town crier and shouting it out to everybody I meet."

  Round the corner of the house a voice was lifted in tuneless song.

  "Oh, I'm goin' home

  Bull-whackin' for to spurn;

  I ain't got a nickel,

  And I don't give a dern.

  'T is when I meet a pretty girl,

  You bet I will or try,

  I'll make her my little wife,

  Root hog or die."

  "You see Johnnie isn't ashamed to shout out his good intentions," she said.

  "Johnnie isn't engaged to the loveliest creature under heaven. He doesn't have to lie awake nights for fear the skies will fall and blot him out before his day of bliss."

  Beatrice dropped a little curtsy. She held out her hand in dismissal.

  "Till to-morrow, Clary."

  As Bromfield turned away, Johnnie came round a corner of the house dragging a garden hose. He was attacking another stanza of the song:

  "There's hard times on old Bitter Creek

  That never can be beat.

  It was root hog or die

  Under every wagon sheet.

  We cleared up all the Indians,

  Drank . . ."

  The puncher stopped abruptly at sight of his mistress.

  "What did you drink that has made you so happy this morning, J
ohnnie?" she asked lightly.

  The cowpuncher's secret burst from him. "I done got married, Miss

  Beatrice."

  "You—what?"

  "I up and got married day before yesterday," he beamed.

  "And who's the happy girl?"

  "Kitty Mason. We jes' walked to the church round the corner. Clay he stood up with us and give the bride away. It's me 'n' her for Arizona poco pronto."

  Beatrice felt a queer joyous lift inside her as of some weight that had gone. In a single breath Johnnie had blown away the mists of misunderstanding that for weeks had clouded her vision. Her heart went out to Clay with a rush of warm emotion. The friend she had distrusted was all she had ever believed him. He was more—a man too stanch to desert under pressure any one who had even a slight claim on him.

  "I want to meet her. Will you bring her to see me this afternoon,

  Johnnie?" she asked.

  His face was one glad grin. "I sure will. Y'betcha, by jollies."

  He did.

  To Beatrice, busy writing a letter, came Jenkins some hours later.

  "A young—person—to see you, Miss Whitford."

  He said it with a manner so apologetic that it stressed his opinion of the social status of the visitor.

  "What kind of a person?"

  "A young woman, Miss. From the country, I tyke it."

  "She didn't give you a card?"

  "No, Miss. She came with the person Mr. Whitford took on to 'elp with the work houtside."

  "Oh! Show them both up. And have tea sent in, Jenkins."

  Kitty's shy eyes lifted apprehensively to those of this slim young patrician so beautifully and simply gowned. Instantly her fears fled. Beatrice moved swiftly to her with both hands outstretched.

  "I'm so glad to meet you."

  She kissed the young wife with unaccustomed tenderness. For the Colorado girl had about her a certain modesty that was disarming, an appeal of helplessness Beatrice could not resist.

  Kitty, in the arms of her hostess, wept a few tears. She had been under a strain in anticipating the ordeal of meeting Johnnie's mistress, and she had discovered her to be a very sweet, warm-hearted girl.