George Brent nodded his agreement. “He’s changed a heap. Back in Mescal Basin folks remember him as a wild young kid. I got a hunch that somebody’s goin’ to be su’prized; mighty dawggoned su’prized.”
CHAPTER III
MURDER ON THE TRAIL
BARRY WESTON reined in his horse and sat the saddle listening. The sound of three distinct shots had been borne to him on the afternoon breeze, the first two in quick succession, the other after a short interval. Had the shots been equally spaced he would have taken them for the help signal in general use; but as it was they might mean anything from harmless target shooting to a battle for life. After a moment he urged his horse onward at a slow lope.
He sniffed the air eagerly, gazed about him at every familiar landmark. Night should find him at the side of his mother. His pleasant anticipation was tinged with a shade of apprehension. Suppose he were too late? The thought caused him to spur his mount, only to rein in almost instantly. The horse had served him faithfully; for a full month he had carried Barry steadily towards home, always willing, never faltering. Now within hours of his destination, there was no necessity to hurry him.
The country was rolling and rocky, with occasional patches of scrub timber and thorny chaparral. Presently the horse topped a rise, and Barry drew rein quickly and backed the animal to an outcropping of rock over which he could peer.
Before him the stage road dipped gently into a stone-studded hollow, to rise again on the far side to the crest of still another ridge. Down this latter slope a horseman was rushing, bent low over the neck of his mount. Almost at once a compact group of pursuers topped the rise, quirts rising and falling, sun glinting on their weapons. Even as Barry watched, the horseman in the lead turned in his saddle and fired rapidly with a six-gun.
Barry remained behind his rock shelter. Thus far there was no call for interference. The pursued might be a criminal; the pursuers, a posse.
The horseman in the lead crossed the flat bottom of the depression and put his horse to the slope which led to Barry’s hiding place. Weston could see the fellow’s eyes now. They were staring wildly, desperately. He was leaning as far over as his saddle horn would permit.
The climb slowed his horse’s speed, and the pursuers perceptibly closed the gap between them and their quarry. Now, as they reached the foot of the slope, their leader pulled his mount to a stop, raised his six-gun, and, taking deliberate aim, fired. The fleeing man jerked erect in his saddle, swayed, tossed about for a few jumps like a sack of straw in a bouncing wagon, then slipped from the saddle, rolled, and lay still.
Barry drew the carbine from its sheath under his leg and rode out to the top of the rise. At this range he was out of reach of their six-guns, while his rifle easily commanded them. He fired a warning shot, then rode slowly down the trail towards the prostrate man.
The pursuers drew up sharply, their horses restive. For a moment they conversed, then suddenly spurred their mounts in a charge straight up the slope. Barry fired again, and one of the horses plunged forward to the earth, throwing its rider heavily. Another shot and a horseman pulled up, his left arm dangling. Swerving their mounts from the trail, they circled, heading for the foot of the declivity.
The man who had been unseated got to his feet and started running in a zig-zag course down the grade. When he reached his waiting companions, one of them extended a hand and drew him to the horse’s back; then the whole six rode swiftly up the opposite slope and disappeared over the ridge.
Barry dismounted by the prostrate man and rolled him over on his back. The fellow was short and stocky, with that appearance of untidiness which clings to some persons despite their efforts to escape it. He was shot through and through, and could not possibly live very long. Barry got his canteen and forced some of the water into the man’s mouth. There was little else he could do. He was on the open road, several hours’ ride from Mescal, and moving the man was out of the question. He squatted on his heels and smoked thoughtfully, shielding the fellow from the rays of the sun with his body.
He heard a coughing gasp and looked down at the wounded man. His eyes were open and he was trying to speak. Barry quickly raised his head, wiped the froth from his lips, and gave him a drink of water.
“Thanks,” gasped the man feebly, and lay back, panting. His lips moved again, and Barry had to put his head close to them in order to hear.
“I’m—done for—ain’t I?”
“You’re pretty hard hit, pardner.”
There was a short interval of silence, broken by a coughing spell which brought on a hemorrhage.
“Better not try to talk,” advised Barry.
The man clamped his white lips together and gazed wildly up at Barry. He gasped the words with a distinct effort. “Damned—double-crosser! Oughta knowed—he’d do it.” He uttered a bitter laugh which brought on a coughing spell. Barry raised his head until the paroxysm had passed. As he was lowering him, the man spoke again, faintly, haltingly. “Buy—steal—kill!” He closed his eyes, his strength entirely gone.
Barry leaned over him and spoke sharply. “Listen, pardner; who are you talkin’ about? Who shot you, and why?”
The eyelids fluttered open, the lips moved weakly. No audible sound escaped them, although Barry placed his ear close and strained to hear. In his impatience he shook the man gently in an effort to rouse him. “His name?” he kept repeating. “Tell me his name?” But the man had gone lax in his arms and at last Barry realized that he was dead.
Carefully he examined the contents of the man’s pockets in an effort to identify him. There were a few trinkets, some change, and a wallet the contents of which caused Barry to exclaim in amazement. He thumbed through the thick wad of banknotes. Five thousand dollars! No wonder the fellow had been waylaid.
Barry put the wallet into an inside pocket for safe keeping, then caught up the man’s horse and roped the limp body over the saddle. Using the rein as a lead rope, he continued on his way.
“Buy—steal—kill.” What had the fellow meant by that? Steal and kill were easily understandable; but why the buy? George Brent’s story of how the Moleys were attempting to buy the Cinchbuckle and the Flying W had, of course, impressed him; but surely there could be no connection here. There was the possibility, though, that the man’s pursuers might be the rustler gang George had mentioned. Although the distance had been too great for positive identification, Barry had seen that the leader—he who had shot this man—was big and broad and bewhiskered. Barry believed he would know him if he were to meet him again. And certainly one of the others would carry his arm in a sling for some time to come.
The sun was low when he rode into Mescal. Barry found himself gazing about him much like a colt returning to the home pasture. Same false-fronted buildings, a bit more warped and faded from the five years’ sun and rain; the Silver Palace of Ace Palmateer, easily the largest establishment in town and shining with a coat of fresh paint; Bascomb’s store, also renovated; a new brick building bearing the legend CATTLEMAN’S BANK; the squat, drab office of Horace Maley, attorney-at-law and justice of the peace. Livery barn and corral, feed store and harness shop. All unchanged. Even the streets wore the same old ruts which crossed and criss-crossed like the wrinkles in the face of a very tired old man. But it all spelled home.
The people on the main street stared curiously, a few of them following along the sidewalks. Some of them Barry knew, but none recognized him in the dusk. He rode straight to a building labeled SHERIFF’S OFFICE and drew rein before it. Sam Hodge stood in the doorway, picking his teeth. He caught sight of Barry and the laden horse, and walked to the hitch rack.
“What you got there?” he asked, and looked up at Barry.
“Know me, Sam?”
The sheriff squinted hard, then jerked erect and backed away a step.
“Barry Weston! Who in hell you shot now?”
Barry stared at him, habit suppressing the hot words which rose to his lips. Presently he spoke, explaining. Hodge walk
ed into the street and callously raised the dangling head of the dead man.
“Huh!” he grunted, allowing it to fall again. “It’s that Slater jigger that’s been hangin’ around the Cinchbuckle. Find anything on him?”
“This,” said Barry, and handed him the wallet.
The sheriff counted the contents, his eyes widening in surprise. “All that dinero! And everybody thought he was a bum. Huh! I’ll put this in my safe until we can locate his folks.”
A question came from somebody in the crowd. “And what are you going to do about the killer? It is evident, isn’t it? that Tug Groody did this.”
Barry turned quickly to look at the speaker. He saw a tall, rather gaunt man, with a long, wolfish face and a mane of iron-gray hair. He was wearing a shabby black frock coat, baggy black trousers, and a motheaten beaver hat. Horace Moley, big man of Mescal, had also changed but little.
“Why, I’ll git a posse together first thing in the mornin’. Ain’t no use ridin’ now; we sure can’t trail in the dark.” Hodge turned back to the office with the wallet.
“I think it would be wise to copy the numbers on those banknotes,” said Moley. “This man may have stolen them for all we know.” He entered the office on the heels of the sheriff and closed the door behind him. Presently they emerged, talking.
“I’ll check up on these numbers,” said Moley. “In the meantime, try to get in touch with the man’s relatives.” He nodded shortly to Hodge and walked across the sidewalk to where Barry sat his horse. For a moment Moley stood looking up into Barry’s face, his own features inscrutable.
“So you’ve come back, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Aiming to stay?”
“Why, I reckon so.”
“Well, I can’t say that you’re welcome; our memory of you isn’t a pleasing one.”
“I have a few unpleasant recollections myself.”
For a brief moment the two men exchanged level, appraising glances; then Moley turned abruptly away and started across the street towards his office.
Sam Hodge came to the edge of the sidewalk and spoke gruffly. “All right, Weston, you can go. I’ll take charge of Slater’s horse.”
Barry wheeled away from the rack. No longer could he curb his impatience to reach the Flying W. He wanted to ask Hodge about his mother, but the sheriff’s attitude had killed all desire to question him. He tried to ease his mind by concentrating on the murder of Slater. Sam Hodge had said the man had been hanging around the Cinchbuckle. The Moleys were trying to buy that spread, and Slater had died with the word “buy” on his lips. George had also said that the Cinchbuckle had been losing stock, and had blamed the loss on a gang of rustlers led by Tug Groody. And it was undoubtedly Tug Groody’s men who had murdered Slater. There was a connection there, but so vague a one that Barry was unable to trace it to any reasonable conclusion.
He could never explain why he slowed to a walk when he neared the ranch house. Perhaps it was the natural dread of finding his worst fears realized that caused him to check his horse. Even when he rounded the east wing and saw the light in his mother’s bedroom he held to this slow pace. On the soft turf the sound of hoofs was almost inaudible. Then he saw a horse at the hitch rack, and on an impulse rode to a corner of the gallery and tied there.
Noiselessly he stepped to the gallery. There was a light in the living room, and peering through a window he could see two men leaning over the desk in one corner. He recognized one of them as his step-father, Chet Lewis ; the other, although his back was turned, he knew to be Steve Moley.
Gently he raised the latch and pulled. The door was barred. Barry considered for a moment, then moved silently from the gallery and circled the house. The rear door was unfastened. He stooped and unbuckled his spurs, placing them in his chaps pocket; then entered and closed the door behind him.
He was in the kitchen. Before him was the dining room, and beyond that the lighted living room. There was sufficient illumination to permit him to avoid the furniture as he made his way softly to the living room entrance. There he stopped, watching and listening.
His step-father was seated at the desk, a pen gripped in his hand, laboriously writing. Before him were spread a number of papers. Steve Moley looked over his shoulder. As Barry watched, the older man jerked back in his chair and spoke testily.
“I can’t do it, Steve. My hand shakes so’s I can’t even stay on the line.”
“Go on and write,” grated Moley. “What difference does it make if the signature is shaky? She’s sick and weak; it’ll look all the more natural.”
Barry felt the hot blood mounting to his head, and only the force of stern habit restrained him from springing at the conspirators. They were forging his mother’s name to some document. But she still lived; Moley’s words assured him of that. Perhaps it was this knowledge which helped him keep a grip on himself and remain, muscles tense and blood pounding, to see the thing through.
Moley went on: “Go ahead; practice some more. And for gosh sake, relax. You’re grippin’ that pen like a drownin’ man hangin’ onto an oar. Loosen up.”
“Steve, if Barry ever finds this out he’ll kill me!”
“You poor weaklin’, quit your belly-achin’. Barry ain’t findin’ nothin’ out. He won’t be back until it’s too late to do a thing about it. Now get busy and sign that deed. You can witness it in your own handwritin’, and I’ll be the other witness. Go ahead; sign it.”
Again Chet Lewis bent to his task; Barry heard the scratch of the pen as he wrote, swiftly, desperately. Flinging the pen on the desk he leaned back in his chair and swore. “There it is. It’s the best I can do.”
Moley seized the deed and held it up exultantly. “It’s perfect! Chet, all you needed was somebody to prod you. The old lady’d have to acknowledge that signature herself!”
“Think so?” came a cold voice from the doorway.
Both men wheeled, Moley’s hand moving instinctively towards his gun. The paper to which he clung hampered him, and before he could draw the weapon Barry was speaking.
“Don’t do it, Steve. I aim to make sure the next time I shoot.”
His step-father had twisted about in his chair and was staring with wild, red-rimmed eyes and slack jaw. His face was a pasty white. Moley was trembling with rage and frustration; only the certain knowledge that this man would kill him prevented his forcing the issue.
Barry stepped into the room, his stride springy like that of a stalking cougar. Even to Moley’s rage-heated brain seeped the knowledge that this man was infinitely more dangerous than the boy who had outshot him five years before. Weston had filled out, hardened; his face had lost its youthful curves; the jaw muscles were rigid and inflexible. There was a certain definite something which stamped him as capable, dominant, entirely sure of himself.
“I’ll take the deed, Steve.” Barry paid not the slightest attention to the cowed Lewis.
Under the spell of that compelling gaze, Moley involuntarily stretched out the hand which clutched the paper. Barry briefly glanced at the document, then tore it to shreds.
“We won’t bother with the law, it’s too slow, and I can scotch my own snakes. Get out, Steve; and don’t ever set foot on the Flyin’ W again. Start movin’.”
Red rage suddenly blinded Steve Moley. Who was this upstart to order him about? What right had he to come back and interfere with the plans of himself and his father? With a wild oath he snatched at his gun, and this time there was no paper to hamper him.
Barry had been praying that he would make such a move. Sternly he had held himself in; now all the accumulated fury within him surged to the surface. As though hurled from a catapult he sprang at Moley. His tense fingers gripped the wrist of Steve’s gun hand, wrenched it so violently that Moley screamed with pain. The gun flew from his hand to clatter on the floor a dozen feet away.
Maley lashed out with his free fist only to have his arm seized in an iron grip and forced down in front of him. With his left hand, Ba
rry pinioned both the fellow’s wrists, and with the palm of his right slapped him again and again on the cheek. They were vicious, stinging blows; but the ignominy of them cut far deeper than the ringing slaps.
Whirling the livid Moley, Barry propelled him to the doorway, drew the bolt, and pushed him through the entrance to the gallery.
“Get on your horse and ride,” he said thickly, and stood there to make sure that his order was obeyed.
Steve, shaking with rage and humiliation, leaped on his horse, wheeled the animal from the rack, then turned and spat out every vile epithet that crowded to his tongue. Not until Barry made a motion toward his gun did the fellow jerk his horse about and spur him unmercifully from the yard.
Barry went inside to find his step-father cringing in a chair, his eyes wide with apprehension.
“It was a joke, Barry,” he wailed. “We was just funnin’—me and Steve. We wasn’t gain’ to use—”
“Shut up. Chet Lewis, you’re a liar by the clock. Quit shakin’; I’m not goin’ to hurt you. God knows you deserve killin’, but for some reason ma saw fit to marry you, and you’re still her husband. Now listen to me. Tomorrow you turn out with the crew—if there are any left—and get to work. You’ll eat in the bunkhouse and sleep there too. And if you take one drink of liquor and I find it out, I’ll use a quirt on you.... How’s mother?”
“Porely, Barry; porely. She had a shock about a year ago, and she ain’t never got over it right. I’m awful worried about her.”
Barry flung him a withering look and turned on his heel. In the corridor which led to the east wing, he halted to compose himself, then walked quietly to her door, rapped lightly, and opened it.
She was seated in a rocking chair with a quilt about her shoulders. Her head rested on the back of the chair, and her eyes were closed. How pale and wan she was; how thin and wasted! And her hair had turned completely white. So still was she that for a moment Barry thought that life had fled.
“Ma!” he cried, all the pity and yearning of those five long years surging over him.
Wolves of the Chaparral Page 3