Bullets in the Sun

by Robert J. Horton

  He entered the rear door boldly, realizing that boldness rather than stealth would serve him best if detected. The narrow passage at the rear was deserted, but Bond heard the clicking of chips in one of the rooms. He made his way without hesitation to the room behind the office, opened the door, and stepped into its darkened interior.

  Closing the door after him, he listened intently. He heard the low intonation of voices on the other side of the partition between the room and Lester’s office. He snapped a match into flame and stepped softly to the partition and pressed his ear against it. He could make out Lester’s voice and that of Lawson but could not distinguish what was being said. Finally Lester raised his voice in what Bond surmised was the end of the conference.

  “He’s following Farlin, an’ I’m goin’ in to Rocky Point tomorrow myself,” was what he heard the resort proprietor say.

  A chair scraped on the floor. “You’re crazy!” It was Lawson who spoke, and his tone was angry. “If you want my opinion, I’ll tell you flat that Dan’s gone to town to stick a wad in the bank. He’s mixed up in a ranch, so you say, an’ he’s got that girl of his to look after, an’ why wouldn’t he want to play safe?”

  “I suppose you know that he rode out an’ some way managed to meet this Bovert,” Lester retorted hotly. “An’ Bovert’s already in sweet with the girl. Looks queer to me.”

  “If you think that way, wasn’t it a wise trick to send this fellow after him?” sneered Lawson. “Do you think he’s gone? All you did was to tell him what you was guessing. How you ever got where you are with all the mistakes you make is a mystery.”

  “I’ve sort of had you behind me,” Lester blurted. “I know you wouldn’t knock this place off after . . . well, we’ve helped each other. But Farlin’s got something up his sleeve an’ . . . to tell you the truth, I don’t think for a minute that this fresh upstart is Bovert at all.”

  “An’ that’s right where you may be wrong,” said Lawson. “Oh, don’t look at me that way. I don’t know any more than you do about him, but I’m not tellin’ anybody what’s goin’ on in the back of my head.”

  “How long are you stayin’ in town?” Lester demanded.

  “I don’t know,” was the answer. “Where’s that blunderer, Porky?”

  “The doctor took him to the hotel, they say, an’ . . .”

  The voices died away as the office door was opened and the pair went out into the big room.

  Bond now had need for caution. It was necessary that he get out of the place unseen. With Lester apparently planning to follow Farlin himself, and Lawson giving no reason for staying in Sunrise, and refusing to say how long he intended to remain, the indications pointed to a change of scene. Bond preferred to watch developments from the outside. He had no intention of letting any of the principals in the drama know of his presence in Rocky Point, in the event that the scene shifted there.

  As Bond thought and listened, and finally became convinced that Lester and Lawson had left both the office and the station at the head of the long counter, he lit a match and stepped softly to the door. He waved the match out and put an ear to the panel.

  At the moment he put his hand on the knob it was twisted from his grasp and a form burst in upon him. He staggered back and quickly leaped to one side of the door, dropping to one knee as a needle of fire cut the darkness.

  Bond’s gun came into his hand naturally, but he did not reply to the shot. Other forms were in the doorway, but they drew back. The corridor was but dimly lighted and Bond took a desperate chance, deciding upon the move, and making it, almost before the echo of the bullet’s explosion died away.

  He sprang out the door, shouting: “He’s there! Watch out!”

  Three or four men sprang back as a second shot roared inside the room and a bullet whistled past them. It was the man who had fired first, taking a chance of hitting Bond as he plunged through the door, and he had missed his quarry and narrowly missed hitting one of his companions.

  For Bond it was the best thing that could have happened. He had got past the men, who, confused, believing him to be their companion, and expecting more shots from the room, had broken away. Bond sped around in the corner to the rear door in a twinkling. In another moment he was outside and dashing for the protecting shadow of the trees. Fireflies of death winked behind him before he reached cover in safety. He sped toward the place where his horse was waiting. There were no more shots behind him, and no shouts or sounds of pursuit. If Lester had suspected his presence in the room, or had learned of it through someone watching, he evidently had given orders to confine operations to the resort itself.

  But these conjectures did not satisfy Bond in the least. If Lester had been sincere at first in sending him to follow Farlin, he had decided to double-cross him later, and, if he had engineered the attack upon him, he was throwing discretion to the winds. The thing that interested Bond was the possibility that Lawson might have been behind the attack. For Lawson was playing an under-cover game, even with Lester, possibly with Farlin and Red Cole, too.

  A sweet party, Bond thought grimly to himself. Maybe I’m dumb, but it sure looks like I’ve stepped into something.

  He stopped near his mount and listened with a frown, while his eyes searched the shadows as the dim starlight filtered down through the trees. This time he was not so sure of an ambush, and not at all certain of getting off in the event that there was one. As a last resort, those against him could easily disable his horse and leave him afoot at a dangerous time. There were two other points of great importance. If he were pursued, his followers would have a better chance to outwit him before he could reach Rocky Point, and there was also the probability—possibility, at least—that they might look for him at the Farlin cabin and perhaps molest Gladys. This last bothered him more by far than the other.

  As he considered this, a horseman galloped below him on the trail to the east. Either Lawson or Lester was riding out of town.

  This decided him, and he again stole up the slope to where he had a view of the Farlin cabin. No one was in sight and only two windows showed light. One was the window of the living room, and the other was the window of the kitchen, as Bond knew, being now partly familiar with the arrangement of the cabin.

  He wanted to attract Gladys’s attention and give her a word of further warning, but he hesitated to do so lest the place should prove to be watched. For one wild moment he considered returning to the Red Arrow, and, if Lester were there, shooting it out with him to destroy one angle of the triangle. He was young, filled with the spirit of adventure, perhaps—in love. The possibility had not entered his thoughts. Thus, the more he considered this step, the more he was tempted to yield to the impulse.

  And then his next move was solved for him when two girlish figures came up the trail and he recognized Gladys and her friend, Louise Smith. They were talking rapidly in low tones and Bond waited until they had gone into the cabin. Soon another light shone and he surmised they had gone into Gladys’s room.

  He turned and retraced his steps through the deep shadow, proceeding with all the stealth born of his trail experience. In his absence a second horseman might have ridden east. He waited some little time near his horse and then went forward swiftly, untied the animal, and was in the saddle in the briefest space of time, swinging into the open and into the trail. When he had crossed the creek, he spurred his mount and soon was galloping on the open plain on the hard trail leading to Crazy Butte and Rocky Point.

  He rode as fast as he could and had covered something more than three miles when the unexpected happened. The creek that flowed through Sunrise described a wide curve to the southeast when it left the town behind, whereas the trail led straight and true toward the east. The plain was a vast field of shadows but fairly lighted by moon and stars. Bond had good visibility ahead, and an attack from his left, behind, or in front, could easily be outridden. But now a rider came from the timber on his right, from the great bend of the creek. The horseman was speeding to cu
t him off, and left Bond the alternatives of veering to the north on his left, turning back, or attempting to outride the man who was racing from the south, on his right.

  Bond chose the last alternative and called on his horse for a spurt to test the qualities of his pursuer’s mount. The fact that but one man was following him led him to believe this was the man who had left town some time before. Surely Lawson would not think him fool enough to accept Lester’s mission—if the outlaw believed him to be other than an adventurer—and Bond decided the rider must be Lester. It might be Lawson, but . . .

  Jim Bond abandoned conjectures with a toss of his head and put himself to the task of riding his best, of getting all speed possible out of his mount, and the fine animal responded with a burst of going that soon put the approaching rider out of the running, so far as any cutting off was concerned.

  In a matter of moments, the enemy changed his tactics, straightened out, and raced east in the same direction Bond was taking. The flowing plain with its billowing shadows became a racetrack, a straightaway with life for one or the other as the stake. Bond had no fear of his opponent, he had faced a blazing gun more than once, but in this instance he had no desire to take a chance of losing, because sincerely he wanted to do Gladys Farlin a favor.

  Bond felt a wild sense of exultation as he gradually forged ahead, although he seemed to acquire his lead a scant foot at a time. However, unless the other rider was holding back, he had demonstrated to his own satisfaction that he possessed the better horse. Indeed, it would take a super horse, almost, to outdistance Bond’s mount.

  Bond now changed his own tactics. He eased his pace until he had fallen a bit behind. If the other wished to renew the spurt and fight it out, this was his opportunity. But Bond had no intention of spending his horse in a wild race on the open plain with a long way to go. This was wisdom, and the other apparently appreciated the fact, or realized he would be beaten, for he, too, eased off and gave up the effort. Bond again checked his speed until his horse was running at a pace he could sustain, if need be, for hours. The other did likewise. But both were making most excellent time.

  Bond’s expression had changed to one of grim resolve. Only a man accustomed to long hours in the saddle, to emergency speed contests, to hard, fast, exceedingly expert riding could put on the exhibition he had just witnessed. And Lester, keeping close to his place of business, engaged indoors at all hours, could hardly be expected capable of such a performance. The man must be Lawson.

  The moon was riding into the western sky, and the light of the stars was dimming. The bulky form and jagged outlines of Crazy Butte were marching toward them. Dawn would not be long in coming. Jim Bond was not as familiar with this section of the north range as he could wish. He knew that the district around the butte afforded excellent cover, but the ride on to Rocky Point would have to be made in daylight. His pursuer would be at less advantage in broad day. If Bond could make the tumbled country around the butte in sufficient time ahead of his follower, he could hide out for a time, rest his horse, and move on to Rocky Point in the morning, in full view, riding his best and trusting to his horse—and to his gun if necessary.

  The other must have been thinking much the same. He quickened his pace, and the real race was on.

  Jim Bond fairly booted his horse ahead and rode him hard into the lead. Straight ahead, neck and neck, with his pursuer trying to maintain the pace and to draw closer at the same time. To attempt to shoot at the distance that separated them would be sheer folly. Bond laughed and raced for the butte, increasing his lead rapidly. Gray light streamed across the plain. The rider behind him suddenly slowed his pace and quickly drew far behind.

  Bond shouted jubilantly and sped on. His adversary—Lawson, doubtless—had not the slightest wish to be recognized.

  Chapter Twelve

  Meanwhile, Dan Farlin had ridden even faster than he had anticipated. He had a good start on Jim Bond, to begin with, and considerable time had elapsed while events were in progress in Sunrise. As a consequence, neither Bond nor the mysterious rider caught as much as a glimpse of him as he proceeded swiftly on his way. Indeed, in the excitement of the race, Bond had forgotten all about Farlin.

  The gambler reached the point south of the butte where the trail turned southeast for Rocky Point in due season, and at dawn was well on his way toward the county seat. There were ranches where he could have stopped, and at any of which he would have been welcome, but he preferred to push on. He was not riding on physical endurance alone, for his mind was busy with a hundred and one thoughts, suspicions, and conjectures. And out of this tangle came the conviction that he had to go through with the business in hand as speedily as possible. For Gladys, to all appearances, was altogether too much impressed by the young adventurer who he believed to be none other than Bovert.

  And still he had inwardly to confess that Jim Bond, as the young adventurer called himself, had made a favorable impression on him. Damn it! What with a $100,000 ranch that he might never be able to pay for, a good-looking, vivacious, impressionable daughter, his own fondness—innate and studiously cultivated through the years—for games of chance, Lester’s hold over him, and Lawson’s proposition—he had much to think about. He did not look with favor upon the dubious role he was about to play, but—if he didn’t do it, somebody else would. It was an old alibi for him.

  He reached Rocky Point shortly after noon and, after putting up his horse, took the small pack from his saddle and proceeded to the hotel. His eyes glistened as he looked up and down the busy principal street. There was money in this, the liveliest town on the north range. It was supported by a rich ranching country and by the mining activities in the south. He thought it peculiar that Lawson had not made a raid here before, regardless of the “hands-off” agreement he had with Sheriff Mills. In fact, the immunity enjoyed by Sunrise was due in a great part to this agreement. And now the outlaw intended to make the long-delayed raid. It was brought home to Farlin with startling force that this was to be Lawson’s final play in that territory. It was also to be Farlin’s last hand thereabouts. With the agreement broken, what would happen to Sunrise—and to Lester? The gambler smiled grimly. Sunrise was doomed. And if Lester was to get an inkling of what was in prospect! The smile faded and the gambler’s eyes hardened.

  Dan Farlin was known personally to a favored few in Rocky Point. One of these was the proprietor of the leading hotel, the Palace. This stocky, ruddy-faced, good-natured individual spotted him as soon as he entered the hotel lobby and advanced with outstretched hand.

  “’Lo, Dan,” he greeted. “In so soon? Don’t usually see you till after the Fourth. How’s Gladys getting on these days?”

  “Very well,” said Farlin, shaking hands. “If I’m ahead of time, it’s because things are slow and I thought a trip to the big town would do me good.” His smile was engaging.

  The proprietor became confidential. “If you’re looking for a play here, Dan, you’ve come at the right time. Shearing’s just over, the mines are booming, and there’s all kinds of loose money hunting a new owner, and I can put you right. You’re one gambler who can work this town and nobody’d kick.”

  Farlin laughed. “I never work any town, my friend,” he replied with a suspicious twinkle in his eye.

  “I know,” said the other, raising his eyes. “You don’t want the girlie in here, and I don’t blame you. She’s better off in Sunrise. This place”—he lowered his tone—“is getting tough.”

  “You don’t say,” said Farlin, feigning astonishment. “And just when was it that it got soft? I wish you’d have let me know, because I’d have moved in, bought a house, and planted a flower garden. I always loved flowers, old horse thief.”

  “Yeah? On somebody’s grave who . . . oh, I didn’t mean that, Dan. My jokes have a way of coming out twisted. At that, I’ve seen you wear a flower in your coat lapel, which is something I’ve never seen anyone else do around this burg. Now I know just what you want. You want a room, and you want
a bath. And you’re going to get ’em is what I mean. And when you’re ready I want you to come down and have dinner with me. I haven’t eaten yet, and I’ll see the cook tosses up something you want. Come along.”

  An hour or so later, bathed, shaved, dressed as usual in his dark double-breasted suit, with white shirt and dark-blue tie, his boots peeping forth brilliantly polished, his diamonds flashing, Dan Farlin stood looking out the window of his room on the second floor, facing the street. A smart, splendid figure of a man—the most striking in that town. No one knew how he had come by his taste for sartorial perfection, for quiet, elegant dress. They assumed it was inherited. The big diamonds? They were expected of him.

  Farlin’s fine, handsome face was gathered in a frown. His talk with George Reed, the proprietor of the hotel, had disturbed him. Here was a man—a friend—who respected him. There were others. And Farlin did not pick his friends among the riff-raff of the cow towns and mining camps. And here he was about to—but they might never even suspect the part he had played with Lawson. He shrugged and went down to his dinner with Reed.

  “You know, Dan,” Reed said, when they lighted their smokes after the meal, “I’ve been wondering if you’ve ever thought of . . . of quitting the game you’re in. Now, don’t think I’m trying to butt into your private affairs, for I’m not. After all, I’m your friend. But Gladys is getting to be quite a girl, and you’ve got to think of her.”

  Farlin immediately saw an opportunity for an excuse if he should leave the country at all soon.

  “I’ve thought of it, George. I’ve saved some money, and I’m going into ranching. No, not around here. I’ve a place picked out where the environment will be better for the girl. I think . . . I’m pretty sure I have enough to swing it. Now I’m going over to the bank and stick in a deposit.”