But did Dillingham really hire Mason? Was it really Dillingham’s letter Owens got, and Dillingham’s check for a down payment on the steers? If so, Dillingham was a fool to trust Mason, an outlaw with two thousand bucks on his noodle. In the night Mason met some jasper he knowed and never told me ’bout it. Hell! If he was aimin’ to shoot square with me, he should ha’ explained the thing. I’ll just have it out with that lame blond jasper right now!
But I can’t leave my job of bringin’ up the drags and ridin’ close herd on my ringy prisoner, Sheriff Dutton. So I do nothin’, Mason don’t stop our drive till twilight, and when the drag end of the herd finally drifts into the halted bunch, I see our pilot has picked out a flat place on top of a high hill. There’s grass on the hill, but about nine rocks to every square foot. Mason, ridin’ back to meet me, sez this is the only place within ten miles big enough for a bedground where we can circle round the herd, and maybeso the dogies can adjust their bones to them boulders.
“Humph,” I grunts sour. “How much further through this snake country, Mason?”
“Two days’ drive yet, and another day after that to hit Dillingham’s ranch.”
“Mason, yuh know anything about them six riders I seen on a ridge?”
“I seen ’em, too.”
“Yeah? You know ’em?”
“Bill Swift, I’ve mentioned afore that you’re too damned curious for your own good.”
“Look here, Mason,” I beller. Then I stop and don’t go on. What the heck’s the use of bawlin’ him out?
“I’ll unpack the other hosses,” sez he, “but you’d better take the pack off that ’un,” pointin’ to the sheriff’s nag.
So I unload Dutton and tie him to a tree, but tellin’ him if he’ll agree to behave hisself an’ let my cowpunchers alone, I’ll untie him. Dutton won’t agree to nothin’. “I’ll have two prisoners when I leave this outfit,” he spits. “You as well as Lame Larson, unless I put a bullet between your damned eyes.”
Mason gets supper, and it’s some meal ’spite of what the hail storm did to our grub. Beds are soaked plum’ through, and since the sun’s down there ain’t much chance to dry ’em, though I do spread some blankets out close to the fire. Jimmy and Raw Beef hold the hungry, tired cattle while me and Mason eat and I feed the sheriff. Then we relieve the other boys and stand guard till midnight.
We’re packin’ up to hit the trail again at dawn when all of a sudden appear seven riders. They pop up over the edge of the hill and are right at our camp afore I see ’em. Jinglin’ Jimmy and Raw Beef are with the herd, stringin’ west off the rocky hill and up a gully, grazin’ as they travel. Me and Mason and the tied sheriff is at camp.
I just stand like I was petrified while I size up them newcomers. Six of ’em I has never seen afore, but the seventh is Cal Bassett. And say! There’s plenty of triumph in that geezer’s slinky eyes. Mason, busy packin’ a pony, keeps right on workin’.
“Mornin’,” rumbles a whalin’ big hombre with an eagle-beak nose stickin’ through a nest of black whiskers. Two of his sidekicks also has plenty whiskers. The other three is acquainted with razors. All of ’em knows what well-dressed, tough nuts what lived in the open ought to wear—heavy shirts, greasy overalls, boots, big black hats.
“Mornin’, cowboys,” sez I, figgerin’ I’d jus’ as well call ’em cowboys and act sociable. “You work for some outfit round here?”
“Ain’t you the inquisitive hombre,” returns black whiskers. “We work for ourselves. Since I met this friend of your’n,” indicatin’ Cal Bassett, “I know your name, Bill Swift. I’m Black Yardley.”
“Pleased to meet yuh,” I lie. For I never was less pleased to meet anybody.
“I take it you got hoss sense, Bill Swift,” Yardley proceeds. “Yuh’ll notice yuh ain’t got no more chance than a jackrabbit in the center of a coyote pack. So don’t reach for your lead-chucker.”
“No savvy your line o’ talk,” I sez, just stallin’ along.
“I’ll explain some,” sez Yardley. “I’m a great talker anyhow. That tall blond jigger, packin’ the hoss, used to be one of my men. And—”
“Used to be, huh?” the words pop outa my mouth.
The burly, black-whiskered hombre nods emphatic, then shouts: “Hey, don’t yuh step round on the other side o’ that hoss, Larson! And keep your hands away from your guns!” “Guns?” I think, and for the first time notice that Mason is wearin’ two this mornin’. He has turned to face our visitors and now without a word he rolls a cig, his hands steady as rock.
“You’re real interestin’, Yardley,” sez I. “Tell me some more. I’m one curious jasper.” Uneasy? Gosh, I’m on tenterhooks. Them six men and Cal Bassett settin’ there on their hosses all abreast, stony-faced, lynx-eyed, make me squirm.
“Cayuse Brakes is our country,” Yardley resumes. “Couple of weeks ago, Lame Larson up and told me he was quittin’ us.
‘Boss,’ he sez to me, ‘I’m fed up on this damned business. Maybe I can ride a straight trail if somebody’ll give me the chance.’ ”
“And I agreed never to squeal on you, Yardley,” Mason breaks in, harsh. “Also you promised to lay off me and give me a chance. So what the devil you doin’ here?”
“Hell!” snorts the black-whiskered outlaw. “You know why I’m here.” He turns his attention to me, continuin’, “After Larson left us, the next thing we knowed of his doings we seen him pilotin’ a trail herd ’cross my country. Wal, naturally I figgered he was goin’ to turn a nice little trick for us, so, night afore last, I sent one of my boys, Whistlin’ Smith, to talk to him.”
I can’t help givin’ Mason a dirty look. “The hombre you met in the night an’ never told me ’bout,” I growls.
Black Yardley chuckles grim and ugly. “I was some s’prised when Whistlin’ Smith reported back to me that Larson—Mason as yuh call him—hadn’t no intention o’ turnin’ this 90 Bar herd over to his old pards. S’prised—and damned annoyed.”
I jus’ stare at the outlaw boss. He goes on: “Yesterday mornin’, Bill, I seen what you done to the fool sheriff. I also seen the two men what was left behind your herd. One shot bad, the other—wal, I rid up and talked to him,” pointin’ a dirty thumb at Cal Bassett. “Cal was all-fired ringy at yuh, Bill, so he fitted into my scheme plenty good.”
Bassett throws a triumphant look at me. “I get the reward on Lame Larsen,” he ’nounces. “That is, unless Larsen decides to talk turkey with Yardley. Course my good friend, Black Yardley, takes this 90 Bar herd.”
“Yardley, you can’t take the dogies,” speaks up Mason, cold and grim. “Remember, you agreed to let me alone.”
“But you was damn fool enough to pilot a herd worth thirty or forty thousand bucks across my territory,” snaps the black-whiskered outlaw. “If yuh think I’m goin’ to lay off, you’re plum’ loco.”
“You goin’ back on your word? You double-crossin’ me?” Mason wants to know. “Put it anyway yuh like,” retorts Yardley, “but I aim to have these cattle. However, I’ll give you the chance to join my outfit again, Larson. Join us, and Cal Bassett don’t collect no reward on your scalp. Turn my offer down and Bassett collects two thousand bucks. Savvy?”
An instant’s tense silence. I don’t seem to count none in this drama, but I’m lookin’ at the man who does, the tall, lame, thin-lipped and cold-eyed rider, Mason, or Lame Larsen.
His piercin’ eyes—eyes now narrowed to pinpoints—is tryin’ to tell me somethin’, but I don’t get the message.
“Hombre,” Yardley goes on to Mason, “yuh only got one choice. Seven to two, we are,” throwin’ me a contemptuous glance and sneerin’ to show how slight is my chance and Mason’s. “We can bullet-riddle both of yuh afore you can say Jack Robinson.”
“Yardley, you’re a double-crosser. You’ve gone back on your word to me, yuh polecat,” Mason hisses. “Here’s my answer!”
I’m lookin’ straight at him, yet I fail to see his two Colts leave their holsters. I
see ’em in his hands, held low at his hips, both muzzles spurtin’ flame. Deafenin’ roar and crash of shots. Pandemonium among the seven horsemen. I crouch, snake out my own barker and begin’ throwin’ lead. Horses leapin’ every which way, kickin’, squealin’. Dust! Din! I can’t see more’n half of what’s goin’ on. I’m busy pumpin’ bullets at Cal Bassett, who’s tryin’ to get me. All the rest of that gang seem hell-bent on downin’ Mason. But Yardley’s saddle is empty, his horse sky-hootin’ away yonderly. ’Nother hombre has keeled offen his bronc, but his foot has hung in a stirrup and his crazy hoss is kickin’ the man’s head to a pulp while it stampedes over the rim of the hill and outa sight.
Mason’s first two shots has settled Yardley and one other, but four more men throw lead at him. Outa the tail of my eye, as I knock Bassett offen his nag, I see Mason hurled back by a forty-five slug. But he lands sitting and his two guns flame on. A hoss leaps towards him, a wild-eyed killer on the hoss. I shoot that hombre through the head. Another of my shots brings down a bronc that squeals horrible and kicks, the rider pinned under the critter.
Then all in the space of time it takes to empty a six-shooter that battle’s over. Silence, save for a thuddin’ of hoofs in the distance, squeals of wounded horses and groans of men. I take stock of the situation. Yardley dead. One bandit gone yonderly somewhere, draggin’ from his stirrup. Cal Bassett gone west. I’ve somehow escaped ’cept for a few minor nicks. Two more Yardley outlaws has cashed in and the other two is shot up terrible. Three horses so bad hurt I put ’em outa their misery.
Mason is lyin’ stretched out on the ground. Quick as I’ve seen there ain’t no more danger from the toughs I run to him.
“Mason, Mason, tell me you ain’t dead.” He sets up slow, blood on his face, blood all over his shirt. “Not dead,” he mutters. “Nope. I’ll pilot them cattle through the rest of the way.”
I catch a pack pony and soon get some rags to bandage that gun-fightin’ outlaw. Three times he’s been hit in the body and has got a scalp wound besides. Not a whimper outa him. But thunder! I know he can’t live long.
Here, speedin’ to camp, come Raw Beef and Jimmy. They stare at the awful scene and Jimmy turns alkali white, but Raw Beef growls, “Damn, I missed out on—”
“The rip-snortin’est scrap ever,” sez I. Then I walk over to Sheriff Dutton, who’s been a spectator to the whole business. “You willin’ to take charge of them two wounded bandits and go back and see how Roper Dixon is makin’ out since Cal Bassett left him?” I inquire.
“I’ll be glad to,” says the awed sheriff. “What’s more, Bill Swift, I’m forgettin’ what you done to me. I’m also forgettin’ all about wantin’ to nab Lame Larson. By grab, he’s all man, he is!”
“Then let’s both get busy,” sez I, cuttin’ ropes on the John Law and lettin’ him up.
The sheriff takes a good look at Mason. “Lordy,” he says, “you cowpunchers take the cake. That is you real, steel-true cowpunchers—you and Mason and Jimmy and ol’ Raw Beef. All you could think of, Bill, when I wanted to arrest Mason, was you had to get the herd through. Same when I arrested you. You bucked the law, regardless o’ consequences. And now Mason, shot all to hell, dyin’ as he rides, will still pilot this herd.”
In that last sentence I figger the sheriff pays Mason the highest compliment he or any man could. For Lame Larson, or Mason, outlaw, gunfighter and cowboy, all shot up though he is, does pilot our 90 Bar herd on across Cayuse Brakes. The second day and the third he has to be tied to his saddle. Sometimes he’s outa his head, but he swears he’ll kill me if I make him get off to die. But on we goes, plumb through the badlands.
* * * *
Sundown of the third day after the battle—the twenty-eighth of September—we reach Cap Dillingham’s ranch. I’m ridin’ with Mason up on point when Dillingham hisself lopes out to meet us.
“Got ’em here on time, I see,” says the rancher. Then lookin’ sharp at the tall, blond cowpuncher aside me, whose face is white as a cigarette paper, body swayin’ in the saddle, “Great Scott, Mason, what’s happened?”
Mason musters a grin. “Played the game square with you, Cap,” he whispers faint, and then loses consciousness.
An hour later we has got him to bed and Dillingham, who is somethin’ of a medical jigger hisself, has cleaned his wounds and bandaged ’em proper. Me and Raw Beef Oliver and Jimmy is waitin’ with misery on our faces for Cap’s verdict.
“Will—will Mason go west, Cap?” I asks husky.
“No,” he answers emphatic. “You did a good job of first aid, Bill, and that rip-tootin’ outlaw has an amazing constitution. Also plenty of fighting grit. He’ll live to be foreman of my outfit.”
READY FOR A COFFIN, by Gene Austin
There was a heavy silence in the saloon as the big man got to his feet, holding his his bloody mouth with one hand and beating the sawdust off the seat of his levis with the other.
“There, ain’t nobody can do that to Luke James and get away with it,” he swore, glaring around with hate gleaming in his little eyes. “I’ll be back—don’t anyone forget it.”
He turned and stumbled through the batwing doors into the darkness outside, and the men lined up at the bar shifted their eyes to the only seated man in the place.
Jake Perkins wouldn’t have been sitting down if it had been possible for him to stand, but his legs had grown old while his mind stayed young, and they no longer responded to the orders he would like to have given them. And he didn’t like the air of silence and concern in the saloon.
“Lookee here,” he growled, scowling ferociously. “I didn’t trundle this here wheelchair of mine down here to be stared at like a two-headed maverick. Everybody order up drinks on me, and let’s get back to the merrymaking. If’n you want to stare, stare at this blasted freak of a bird I got here—he don’t mind it!”
Jake addressed a few cuss words at a big, black glossy crow seated on the arm of his wheelchair, which had been looking with a watering beak at one of the bright silver buttons on Jake’s breast. Probably conscious of the attention called to it, the crow flapped its wings several times and returned to its contemplation of the button. Jake cussed it again and scowled back at the men.
“Well, what you waitin’ on? James ain’t comin’ back tonight, at least!”
“You’re mighty cool about it, Jake,” somebody said. “If Luke James got it in for me like he did you tonight, I don’t reckon I’d stay in this country two minutes.”
“What if he did get it in for me!” Jake bawled. “Was I supposed to sit here like a cripple while he gun-whipped that new schoolteacher? Or was I supposed to take off this here belt of mine and whop him across the face with it and give the schoolteacher a chance to paste him one? Eh? I was supposed to whop him, naturally. Say, where is that school-teacher? What happened to him?”
Everybody looked around for the schoolteacher, but he was no longer present.
“Musta slipped out,” somebody said.
“Well, no matter,” Jake said. “Let’s warm our windpipes with some o’ that rotgut they sell here, and let the crow worry about Luke James. Satan,” he growled, sneering at the crow again, in the way he had of showing his love for anything, “what does an ignorant, good-for-nothin’ bird have to say about this?”
The crow, which had a vocabulary of four or five extremely profound sentences, looked around and observed, “If I go to heaven, I want to take my horse. Ha! Go to heaven and take my horse. Blast, it! Ha, ha!”
Jake took a sock at the bird, which flew to a safer point atop a nearby whiskey bottle, and the drinking in the saloon was resumed.
* * * *
Jake left a few minutes afterward, after coaxing Satan back and placing him in his special cage under the chair seat, and then wheeling himself through the doors and into the cool night air.
“Ready to go home?” A voice said, and a man who had been leaning against the saloon hitch-rack stepped over to him. It was the new schoolteacher, Bob Partridg
e.
“What you hangin’ around out here for?” Jake demanded, halting the progress of his wheelchair.
“I just wanted to make sure that Luke James didn’t hang around,” the schoolteacher said. He was a tall, good-looking young man, and obviously new to Western ways. He wore his sixgun belted tight around his waist, and after informing him that it would be much easier to reach if allowed to hang slack on his hip, Jake added suspiciously: “What you, askin’ me if I’m ready to go home for? You ain’t got any ideas that I pay any’ attention to my niece sayin’ I got to be in by ten, do you?”
“Oh, of course not,” Partridge said blandly. “I just wondered if you’d mind my walking along with you—I understand your house isn’t far down the road. And I want to thank you for what you did in there, although I wish I could have handled him myself. Uh—your niece—that’s Miss Mary Platt, isn’t it—the girl who teaches the younger children at the school?”
“That’s her all right,”’Jake snorted. “And of all the no-good females that ever lived, she’s the worst. As for thankin’ me for what I did, it warn’t nothin’ at all. Luke James didn’t have no call to start on you jus’ because you said he ought to learn to read. Everybody ought to learn to read.”
“You read, of course,” Partridge said.
Jake coughed. “Well—it’s been a long time. I mean, I don’t exactly read, but I sure like to look at pictures. I—”
Partridge quickly changed the subject, all the more because Jake’s curfew time was fast approaching, and he well knew the old man wanted to get home on time.
“That’s fine, Mr. Perkins—but it don’t get rid of Luke James. I’ve only been here two days, but I’ve seen enough to know he’s as dangerous as a snake. He’s got a lot of pride—he’s off somewhere now licking it, and he isn’t going to stand for the humiliation he took in that saloon. He’s going to be after both of us—you for hitting him in the face with your belt-buckle, me for knocking him down and disarming him.”
The Second Western Megapack Page 12