Man of the Desert: A Western Story

by Robert J. Horton

  “I’ll talk to him in the morning,” muttered Farman, patting her hand.

  She turned the light in the lamp low and sat with him until he slept.

  Mrs. McCaffy tiptoed into the room and beckoned to her to come out into the kitchen.

  “Something’s going on out there by the bunkhouse,” the housekeeper whispered. “I guess it’s the men. They’re afraid for their lives with that devil of a Mendicott, an’ his coming here this way tonight has made them all the worse. I can’t say as I blame ’em, the way things look,”

  Hope hurried to the kitchen door. She arrived there just in time to see two men standing before a group of others in the starlight before the men’s quarters.

  “There’ll be no leaving here at this time,” came a voice she recognized as Channing. “The quicker you men get it into your heads that you’re going to stick it out, the better. That’s plain talk, and McDonald and I mean it. Here, you, get back there with the bunch!”

  Mrs. McCaffy had joined Hope in the doorway.

  “It’s that slippery little Mexican, Mendez,” she said in an undertone.

  Mendez had halted some little distance away from the group on Channing’s side—the side toward the barn. “No, no,” he said in a hissing voice. “I go, señor, I go.”

  “You mean you’ll stay!” thundered Channing. “Get back there where you belong.”

  “You make me stay to get killed, maybe?” snarled out the Mexican.

  “You stay or you’ll probably get killed,” was Channing’s swift reply.

  Mendez crouched and sprang to one side, his right hand darting up and behind his left shoulder.

  Channing whipped his hat from his head and leaped backward. The spectators caught a gleam of flashing steel in the starlight—a white streak that struck the hat Channing brought across in front of him. Then Channing had the Mexican by the throat and threw him several feet to the ground before the other men. He picked up his hat, slipped the knife into a pocket, and bent over the Mexican.

  “You know why you didn’t stop a bullet?” he said fiercely. “You know?”

  “I dunno,” said Mendez sullenly.

  Channing reached down and jerked him to his feet. “Because we need your rope for what’s got to be done around here the next few days. We need your rope, and you’ll use it like you’re told or we’ll hang you with it!”

  Mendez slunk back toward the bunkhouse door. They could see his hands working at his sides. As he reached the bunkhouse door, there came an inarticulate cry, followed by an oath in Spanish. Then Mendez came from between the other men of the little group, bounding straight for Channing.

  “Gringo dog!” he yelled in a frenzy.

  Channing leaned forward and his right fist caught the Mexican on the jaw, stopping his rush and knocking him to the ground. He picked up the man and threw him back against the bunkhouse door, where he lay inert. There was a breathless pause. Then one of the men muttered something.

  “Who said that?” demanded Channing belligerently.

  There was no reply. McDonald moved a step toward Channing and stood with his hand on his gun.

  “Who said that?” repeated Channing.

  None of the men spoke or moved. “All right,” said Channing. “That’s the way we want it.”

  Mendez was stirring. He gradually got to his feet, fumbled at the bunkhouse door till he found the latch, lifted it, and staggered inside.

  “Order ’em in there,” said Channing crisply to McDonald.

  “You heard him,” snapped out McDonald, moving toward the men grouped about the door.

  After several moments of hesitation the men began to move slowly into the bunkhouse. Channing and McDonald waited until the last of them, but one, was inside. The one remaining was Jim Crossley.

  “Get a padlock an’ lock ’em in,” Channing told Crossley.

  While Crossley went to the barn and presently returned with a padlock, McDonald and Channing stood close to the wall on either side of the bunkhouse door. Crossley lost no time in fastening the chain to the staple of the door and snapping on the padlock. Then the three men moved to the shadows of the trees behind the bunkhouse.

  Hope had stepped back into the dimly lighted interior of the kitchen. Now Mrs. McCaffy followed her and found her standing by the table, her face white, her eyes wide with apprehension.

  “What does it mean?” asked Hope with a helpless gesture.

  “It looks as if Channing’s sort of took charge around here,” said the housekeeper. “Well, it had to be done, I guess. We’ve got to keep the men, an’ they’ve got to be told what’s what. An’ they’re afraid of Channing, that’s sure. McDonald ain’t had the experience, I guess.”

  “But that Mexican!” Hope exclaimed.

  “Mendez is a sneak!” said Mrs. McCaffy emphatically. “You can’t trust a Mexican like that. Why did he want to get away so bad? You can bet Channing knows. Probably a spy of Mendicott’s . . . yes, more’n likely. Mendez is fixing to get himself hung. They won’t fool with a Mexican like that up here. Your uncle would have let him go long ago, but he’s a wizard with a rope, an’ he needed him.”

  “Probably Mendez has had instructions to do something like this,” said Hope in indignation.

  “Likely so,” confirmed the housekeeper. “I reckon we’ll have plenty of excitement around here. Something tells me Nate Farman isn’t goin’ to lose this ranch, but there’s goin’ to be the devil to pay keeping it.”

  There was a rap at the kitchen door. Mrs. McCaffy hesitated for an interval, and, when it sounded again, more authoritatively, she opened the door cautiously. Channing was standing outside. He removed his hat and spoke to both of them.

  “You women had better put out the lights and go to bed,” he said shortly, but in a voice that was not unpleasant. “Jim Crossley will stay here in the kitchen tonight. McDonald and I will be outside. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t get a good sleep.”

  “Are you giving orders to the women, too?” asked Mrs. McCaffy tartly.

  “I’m telling you what’s best,” said Channing with a frown. “It’s the only reason I have for bothering you.”

  Hope went to the door. “Is there any real danger, Mister Channing?” she asked anxiously.

  “I dunno,” replied Channing bluntly. “But I don’t ’spect so.”

  She caught the suggestion of a smile in his eyes.

  “Anyway, you won’t have to be warning me tonight,” he said lightly.

  “I am reposing a great deal of confidence in you,” she said as she turned away.

  He retreated as Mrs. McCaffy took up the lamp. He closed the door softly as they started for the stairs.

  In her room Hope reviewed the events of the day calmly. It seemed to her that nothing could happen now to startle her. Her nerves and senses were numbed. She trusted Channing because of some reassuring quality about him, because of what Lillian Bell had said, because of the look in his eyes. She knew he could be terrible, as he had been for a brief time that night. She knew he could control men. And she realized, with a flutter of excitement, that he was not afraid of the arch outlaw, Mendicott. It seemed enough.

  She sat down by her window. All was still outside. A faint, scented breeze was stirring in the trees. The hills were shadowy forms rearing into the star-splashed sky.

  After a time she dozed, only to awaken with a start. There was a pungent odor in the air, a dull, red glow outside the window. She looked out and felt an instant tightening of the throat. Shouts came to her ears. She stared, unable to move. Flames were leaping upward from the roof of the bunkhouse!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hope sat motionlessly at her window, looking down into the yard between the ranch dwelling and the bunkhouse that was illuminated by the glare of the mounting flames. She saw a form come into the square of light—the tall form of Channing. Then McDonald came into the lighted space, and he and Channing turned their attention to the bunkhouse. The men inside were smashing out the
windows with boards torn from bunks and pieces of furniture. Evidently the flames had broken out simultaneously at both ends of the roof, for they were coming out both small windows at each end of the building above the main sleeping room. This indicated that the fire had been set by someone inside the bunkhouse, and Hope thought at once of Mendez. With the thought came recollection of the appearance of the girl, Juanita. Very much did it look as if there was some connection between these two, the trouble of the earlier part of the night, and the fire.

  The men in the burning building were shouting hoarsely. Channing was putting the key in the padlock while McDonald stood back, shouting instructions to the men within. Faces, white with fear, appeared at the windows, and then, as Channing unlocked the door and stepped back, drawing his gun in event of an emergency, the men trooped out, carrying their meager belongings.

  As soon as the door was clear, Channing leaped inside. The other men crowded back toward the barn with McDonald watching them. When he called to them and motioned to them to halt, they obeyed. The roar of the flames from the attic of the building attested to the fact that it would be impossible to save it. The ranch was without fire-fighting apparatus, and to fight a blaze with such a start with pails of water would be futility itself. The men stared dully at the tongues of flames licking at the roof and the smoke pouring from the windows. Hope’s hands were at her throat. It had happened so swiftly. And where was Channing? What was he doing inside the smoke-filled, flaming building?

  As if in answer to her question, Channing appeared. He was bearing a burden in his arms—the limp form of a man. He put the burden down on the end before the men. McDonald ran toward the house.

  Hope left her window, hurriedly put on a dressing gown and slippers, and went out into the hall. There she met Mrs. McCaffy, attired in similar fashion, holding a lamp and appearing frightened. “It’s the bunkhouse,” said Hope in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s on fire. There’s no wind to speak of, so I don’t think there’s a chance for this house to catch. Let’s go down and watch where we can be near Uncle.”

  They went down the stairs and found the rancher was sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion through it all.

  “We won’t wake him unless we have to,” Hope decided.

  They passed through the dining room, the kitchen, and the rear door where they looked out into the lighted yard and saw McDonald throw a pail of water on a form on the ground. A man sat up quickly and the dark, belligerent features of Mendez shone evilly in the flickering flares of the fire.

  “There’s the man who started this,” said Channing, addressing the others. “He started the fire with newspapers and other rubbish up there in the attic. It got going too fast for him before he could get out, and the smoke fixed him. He’s the tool of Brood’s, and he’d burn every one of you to keep in with the gang he’s with!”

  The men muttered, then talked loudly among themselves.

  “String him up!” came the cry from half a dozen throats.

  Channing waved a hand for silence. “That’s what you’ve got to be scared of!” he cried. “Somebody working behind your backs and not somebody that comes out in the open to fight. I’m here, to fight with you, not against you. We can hold this place, and, when we need it, I’ll get help. I locked you in there to give you a chance to do some thinking, not to burn you to death.”

  There was a cheer at this.

  “We can take care of this fellow later,” Channing continued. “Right now we’ve got to see that the house and none of the other buildings burn. We’ll have to form a bucket chain and keep the roof of the ranch house wet so the sparks can’t set it afire. Morning will be time enough to come to an understanding. Are you going to help?”

  There was another cheer, and the men hurried to put their belongings out of reach of the sparks that were falling in showers. Ladders were brought from the barn and soon men were on the roofs of the house and barn, putting out the flaming embers that fell there and wetting down the roofs with pails of water passed up to them by the men below.

  Nathan Farman called from the living room and Hope hurried in to him. He insisted that he be carried to a chair in the kitchen where he could see what was going on. Once there, he called lusty orders to do things that were already being done under the direction of McDonald and Channing.

  Mendez had been taken away somewhere, possibly to the barn, and there either tied or locked in a room or stall. There was need for only an occasional order, and these were mostly given by McDonald. But Channing was everywhere in evidence, watching the work of the men, helping them, calling an order now and then, superintending the work in general.

  Nathan Farman watched him with a puzzled frown. Hope told him bit by bit all that had happened that night, and of his declaration to the men that he would fight with them, in the open, and get help if it should be needed.

  “I reckon it takes one bad man to fight another,” Farman concluded.

  “But Mister Channing can’t possibly be as bad as the man he’s fighting,” defended Hope.

  Her uncle looked at her curiously. “You seem to be much interested in him,” he said. “It’s all I’ve heard since you got back.”

  “Because I believe he’s acting squarely with us,” Hope returned, her face flaming. “I wish you would not jump at foolish conclusions, Uncle.”

  Her uncle was silent, watching the scene outside the kitchen door.

  As the bunkhouse burned lower, becoming a fiery caldron of leaping, trickling flame, sending showers of sparks aloft, and throwing off an intense heat, the men began spraying the window casings and porch of the stone dwelling. Not once did the fire spread to other buildings, although Channing, with two others, found it necessary to tear down a board fence corral near the barn. The tops of trees behind the burning bunkhouse caught, but the trunks merely smoldered. In a remarkably short time the fire had resolved itself into a heap of glowing embers and the men were sent to cut a path through the timber behind the ruin to prevent the start of a forest fire that might sweep up into the hills and impair the watershed.

  It lacked an hour of dawn. Channing sent Crossley to the house to ask that Mrs. McCaffy make a pail of hot, strong coffee for the men. For once the housekeeper had no banter for the little driver. She made the coffee, and they saw Channing take the pail and the cup from Crossley and himself carry it to the men.

  The kitchen and the mess room of the bunkhouse having burned, the Chinese cook who cooked for the men came to the kitchen.

  “You can help Missus McCaffy,” Nathan Farman ordered. “The men will eat in the house today.”

  At dawn a great breakfast was ready and Channing, McDonald, and the other men came trooping in. Spare leaves had been added to the dining room table, and the men, after a session at the wash benches, were ushered into the dining room. The women waited on them. Channing sat at one end of the table and McDonald at the other. Mendez was absent, and none of the house had the temerity to ask about him. The men seemed in a cheerful humor, more cheerful than they had been in days. They cast surreptitious glances at Channing, who ate moodily with only an occasional remark in a pleasant tone, always addressed directly to someone of those about the table. He went out with the hands after breakfast, but McDonald lingered at a word from Nathan Farman.

  “He seemed to have ’em acting pretty sensible,” said the rancher.

  “They put a lot of stock in him . . . more’n they do in me,” said McDonald.

  “What’s he doing?” asked, Farman crossly. “Is he taking charge?”

  “If it hadn’t been for him, I don’t think there’d be a man left on the place this morning,” said McDonald soberly. “I let him go to it when he butted in. Looked like I had to let the men go or shoot ’em down in their tracks.”

  The rancher was thoughtful for a spell. “This is the sort of thing we’ve got to expect in the course of getting rid of men of Mendicott’s stamp,” he said finally. “I reckon we’re playing with fire both ways. I don’t get this fellow Ch
anning at all, but he seems to be doin’ us a service. Can he handle the men like I want ’em handled, McDonald?”

  “I reckon he can,” said the foreman slowly.

  “Then I’ll put him in charge,” decided the rancher. “The two of you ought to make it stick.”

  “Shall I send him in?” asked McDonald.

  “Yes, send him in,” replied Farman.

  When McDonald went outside, he found the men in a group before the barn door. Channing was there with Mendez. He was holding the empty dishes that had been used to serve the Mexican his breakfast. Mendez was scowling, and the attitude of the men was plainly hostile.

  “I reckon we’ll put you on a horse and give you a chance to get out of the country,” Channing was saying. “You’ll go south, understand? Not into the mountains, nor east to the desert, but south, out of the country.”

  Mendez bared his teeth in a snarling grin.

  “Get his horse,” Channing said to no one in particular.

  Two of the men went for the Mexican’s mount. The others grumbled and threatened the man with what he could expect to happen if he ever came back. When the horse was brought and the Mexican’s saddle cinched on, the group broke away. Channing and McDonald moved to one side. Nathan Farman and Hope were watching from the kitchen door.

  “Don’t forget your directions!” called Channing, as Mendez drove in his spurs.

  The Mexican leaned to the right as he shot past. There was a flash of light at his boot leg, and Channing dropped on a knee. McDonald stepped back with a little cry and reached to his shoulder. He pulled out a knife smeared with crimson. Mendez had missed Channing and struck McDonald.

  A howl of rage went up from the men. Then came a cheer. Jim Crossley had stopped the Mexican at the porch of the ranch house by tripping his horse with a rope in a left-handed throw.

  “I expected it!” Crossley cried as the men rushed for the Mexican.