But if Lefty lacked much in agility, he had an animallike sense of balance. Sprawling, helpless, he saw the convulsed shadow that was Donnegan take form as a straight shooting body that plunged through the air above him. Lefty Joe dug his left elbow into the floor of the car and whirled back upon his shoulders, bunching his knees high over his stomach. Nine chances out of ten, if Donnegan had fallen flatwise upon this alert enemy, he would have received those knees in the pit of his own stomach and instantly been paralyzed. But in the jumping, rattling car even Donnegan was capable of making mistakes. His mistake in this instance saved his life, for springing too far, he came down not in reaching distance of Lefty’s throat, but with his chest on the knees of the older tramp.
As a result, Donnegan was promptly kicked head over heels and tumbled the length of the car. Lefty was on his feet and plunging after the tumbling form in the twinkling of an eye, literally speaking, and he was only kept from burying his knife in the flesh of his foe by a sway of the car that staggered him in the act of striking. Donnegan, the next instant, was beyond reach. He had struck the end of the car and rebounded like a ball of rubber at a tangent. He slid into the shadows, and Lefty, putting his own shoulders to the wall, felt for his revolver and knew that he was lost. He had failed in his first surprise attack, and without surprise to help him now he was gone. He weighed his revolver, decided that it would be madness to use it, for if he missed, Donnegan would instantly be guided by the flash to shoot him full of holes.
Something slipped by the open door—something that glimmered faintly; and Lefty Joe knew that it was the red head of Donnegan. Donnegan, soft-footed as a shadow among shadows. Donnegan on a blood trail. It lowered the heartbeat of Lefty Joe to a tremendous, slow pulse. In that moment he gave up hope and, resigning himself to die, determined to fight to the last gasp, as became one of his reputation and national celebrity on “the road.”
Yet Lefty Joe was no common man and no common fighter. No, let the shade of Rusty Dick, whom Lefty met and beat in his glorious prime—let this shade arise and speak for the prowess of Lefty Joe. In fact it was because he was such a good fighter himself that he recognized his helplessness in the hands of Donnegan.
The faint glimmer of color had passed the door. It was dissolved in deeper shadows at once, and soundlessly; Lefty knew that Donnegan was closer and closer.
Of one thing he felt more and more confident, that Donnegan did not have his revolver with him. Otherwise, he would have used it before. For what was darkness to this devil, Donnegan. He walked like a cat, and most likely he could see like a cat in the dark. Instinctively the older tramp braced himself with his right hand held at a guard before his breast and the knife poised in his left, just as a man would prepare to meet the attack of a panther. He even took to probing the darkness in a strange hope to catch the glimmer of the eyes of Donnegan as he moved to the attack. If there were a hair’s breadth of light, then Donnegan himself must go down. A single blow would do it.
But the devil had instructed his favorite Donnegan how to fight. He did not come lunging through the shadows to meet the point of that knife. Instead, he had worked a snaky way along the floor and now he leaped in and up at Lefty, taking him under the arms.
A dozen hands, it seemed, laid hold on Lefty. He fought like a demon and tore himself away, but the multitude of hands pursued him. They were small hands. Where they closed they tore the clothes and bit into his very flesh. Once a hand had him by the throat, and when Lefty jerked himself away it was with a feeling that his flesh had been seared by five points of red-hot iron. All this time his knife was darting; once it ripped through cloth, but never once did it find the target. And half a second later Donnegan got his hold. The flash of the knife as Lefty raised it must have guided the other. He shot his right hand up behind the left shoulder of the other and imprisoned the wrist. Not only did it make the knife hand helpless, but by bearing down with his own weight Donnegan could put his enemy in most exquisite torture.
For an instant they whirled; then they went down, and Lefty was on top. Only for a moment. The impetus which had sent him to the floor was used by Donnegan to turn them over, and once fairly on top his left hand was instantly at the throat of Lefty.
Twice Lefty made enormous efforts, but then he was done. About his body the limbs of Donnegan were twisted, tightening with incredible force; just as hot iron bands sink resistlessly into place. The strangle-hold cut away life at its source. Once he strove to bury his teeth in the arm of Donnegan. Once, as the horror caught at him, he strove to shriek for help. All he succeeded in doing was in raising an awful, sobbing whisper. Then, looking death in the face, Lefty plunged into the great darkness.
CHAPTER 4
When he wakened, he jumped at a stride into the full possession of his faculties. He had been placed near the open door, and the rush of night air had done its work in reviving him. But Lefty, drawn back to life, felt only a vague wonder that his life had not been taken. Perhaps he was being reserved by the victor for an Indian death of torment. He felt cautiously and found that not only were his hands free, but his revolver had not been taken from him. A familiar weight was on his chest—the very knife had been returned to its sheath.
Had Donnegan returned these things to show how perfectly he despised his enemy?
“He’s gone!” groaned the tramp, sitting up quickly.
“He’s here,” said a voice that cut easily through the roar of the train. “Waiting for you, Lefty.”
The tramp was staggered again. But then, who had ever been able to fathom the ways of Donnegan?
“Donnegan!” he cried with a sudden recklessness.
“Yes?”
“You’re a fool!”
“Yes?”
“For not finishing the job.”
Donnegan began to laugh. In the uproar of the train it was impossible really to hear the sound, but Lefty caught the pulse of it. He fingered his bruised throat; swallowing was a painful effort. And an indescribable feeling came over him as he realized that he sat armed to the teeth within a yard of the man he wanted to kill, and yet he was as effectively rendered helpless as though iron shackles had been locked on his wrists and legs. The night light came through the doorway, and he could make out the slender outline of Donnegan and again he caught the faint luster of that red hair; and out of the shadowy form a singular power emanated and sapped his strength at the root.
Yet he went on viciously: “Sooner or later, Donnegan, I’ll get you!”
The red head of Donnegan moved, and Lefty Joe knew that the younger man was laughing again.
“Why are you after me?” he asked at length.
It was another blow in the face of Lefty. He sat for a time blinking with owlish stupidity.
“Why?” he echoed. And he spoke his astonishment from the heart.
“Why am I after you?” he said again. “Why, confound you, ain’t you Donnegan?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t the whole road know that I’m after you and you after me?”
“The whole road is crazy. I’m not after you.”
Lefty choked.
“Maybe I been dreaming. Maybe you didn’t bust up the gang? Maybe you didn’t clean up on Suds and Kennebec?”
“Suds? Kennebec? I sort of remember meeting them.”
“You sort of—the devil!” Lefty Joe sputtered the words. “And after you cleaned up my crowd, ain’t it natural and good sense for you to go on and try to clean up on me?”
“Sounds like it.”
“But I figured to beat you to it. I cut in on your trail, Donnegan, and before I leave it you’ll know a lot more about me.”
“You’re warning me ahead of time?”
“You’ve played this game square with me; I’ll play square with you. Next time there’ll be no slips, Donnegan. I dunno why you should of picked on me, though. Just the natural devil in you.”
“I haven’t picked on you,” said Donnegan.
“What?”
“I’ll give you my word.”
A tingle ran through the blood of Lefty Joe. Somewhere he had heard, in rumor, that the word of Donnegan was as good as gold. He recalled that rumor now and something of dignity in the manner with which Donnegan made his announcement carried a heavy weight. As a rule, the tramps vowed with many oaths; here was one of the nights of the road who made his bare word sufficient. And Lefty Joe heard with great wonder.
“All I ask,” he said, “is why you hounded my gang, if you wasn’t after me?”
“I didn’t hound them. I ran into Suds by accident. We had trouble. Then Levine. Then Kennebec Lou tried to take a fall out of me.”
A note of whimsical protest crept into the voice of Donnegan.
“Somehow there’s always a fight wherever I go,” he said. “Fights just sort of grow up around me.”
Lefty Joe snarled.
“You didn’t mean nothing by just ‘happening’ to run into three of my boys one after another?”
“Not a thing.”
Lefty rocked himself back and forth in an ecstasy of impatience.
“Why don’t you stay put?” he complained. “Why don’t you stake out your own ground and stay put in it? You cut in on every guy’s territory. There ain’t any privacy any more since you hit the road. What you got? A roving commission?”
Donnegan waited for a moment before he answered. And when he spoke his voice had altered. Indeed, he had remarkable ability to pitch his voice into the roar of the freight train, and above or beneath it, and give it a quality such as he pleased.
“I’m following a trail, but not yours,” he admitted at length. “I’m following a trail. I’ve been at it these two years and nothing has come of it.”
“Who you after?”
“A man with red hair.”
“That tells me a lot.”
Donnegan refused to explain.
“What you got against him—the color of his hair?”
And Lefty roared contentedly at his own stale jest.
“It’s no good,” replied Donnegan. “I’ll never get on the trail.”
Lefty broke in: “You mean to say you’ve been working two solid years and all on a trail that you ain’t even found?”
The silence answered him in the affirmative.
“Ain’t nobody been able to tip you off to him?” went on Lefty, intensely interested.
“Nobody. You see, he’s a hard sort to describe. Red hair, that’s all there was about him for a clue. But if any one ever saw him stripped they’d remember him by a big blotchy birthmark on his left shoulder.”
“Eh?” grunted Lefty Joe.
He added: “What was his name?”
“Don’t know. He changed monikers when he took to the road.”
“What was he to you?”
“A man I’m going to find.”
“No matter where the trail takes you?”
“No matter where.”
At this Lefty was seized with unaccountable laughter. He literally strained his lungs with that Homeric outburst. When he wiped the tears from his eyes, at length, the shadow on the opposite side of the doorway had disappeared. He found his companion leaning over him, and this time he could catch the dull glint of starlight on both hair and eyes.
“What d’you know?” asked Donnegan.
“How do you stand toward this bird with the birthmark and the red hair?” queried Lefty with caution.
“What d’you know?” insisted Donnegan.
All at once passion shook him; he fastened his grip in the shoulder of the larger man, and his fingertips worked toward the bone.
“What do you know?” he repeated for the third time, and now there was no hint of laughter in the hard voice of Lefty.
“You fool, if you follow that trail you’ll go to the devil. It was Rusty Dick; and he’s dead!”
His triumphant laughter came again, but Donnegan cut into it.
“Rusty Dick was the one you—killed!”
“Sure. What of it? We fought fair and square.”
“Then Rusty wasn’t the man I want. The man I want would of eaten two like you, Lefty.”
“What about the birthmark? It sure was on his shoulder; Donnegan.”
“Heavens!” whispered Donnegan.
“What’s the matter?”
“Rusty Dick,” gasped Donnegan. “Yes, it must have been he.”
“Sure it was. What did you have against him?”
“It was a matter of blood—between us,” stammered Donnegan.
His voice rose in a peculiar manner, so that Lefty shrank involuntarily.
“You killed Rusty?”
“Ask any of the boys. But between you and me, it was the booze that licked Rusty Dick. I just finished up the job and surprised everybody.”
The train was out of the mountains and in a country of scattering hills, but here it struck a steep grade and settled down to a grind of slow labor; the rails hummed, and suspense filled the freight car.
“Hey,” cried Lefty suddenly. “You fool, you’ll do a flop out the door in about a minute!”
He even reached out to steady the toppling figure, but Donnegan pitched straight out into the night. Lefty craned his neck from the door, studying the roadbed, but at that moment the locomotive topped the little rise and the whole train lurched forward.
“After all,” murmured Lefty Joe, “it sounds like Donnegan. Hated a guy so bad that he hadn’t any use for livin’ when he heard the other guy was dead. But I’m never goin’ to cross his path again, I hope.”
CHAPTER 5
But Donnegan had leaped clear of the roadbed, and he struck almost to the knees in a drift of sand. Otherwise, he might well have broken his legs with that foolhardy chance. As it was, the fall whirled him over and over, and by the time he had picked himself up the lighted caboose of the train was rocking past him. Donnegan watched it grow small in the distance, and then, when it was only a red, uncertain star far down the track, he turned to the vast country around him.
The mountains were to his right, not far away, but caught up behind the shadows so that it seemed a great distance. Like all huge, half-seen things they seemed in motion toward him. For the rest, he was in bare, rolling country. The sky line everywhere was clean; there was hardly a sign of a tree. He knew, by a little reflection, that this must be cattle country, for the brakie had intimated as much in their talk just before dusk. Now it was early night, and a wind began to rise, blowing down the valley with a keen motion and a rapidly lessening temperature, so that Donnegan saw he must get to a shelter. He could, if necessary, endure any privation, but his tastes were for luxurious comfort. Accordingly he considered the landscape with gloomy disapproval. He was almost inclined to regret his plunge from the lumbering freight train. Two things had governed him in making that move. First, when he discovered that the long trail he followed was definitely fruitless, he was filled with a great desire to cut himself away from his past and make a new start. Secondly, when he learned that Rusty Dick had been killed by Joe, he wanted desperately to get the throttle of the latter under his thumb. If ever a man risked his life to avoid a sin, it was Donnegan jumping from the train to keep from murder.
He stooped to sight along the ground, for this is the best way at night and often horizon lights are revealed in this manner. But now Donnegan saw nothing to serve as a guide. He therefore drew in his belt until it fitted snug about his gaunt waist, settled his cap firmly, and headed straight into the wind.
Nothing could have shown his character more distinctly.
When in doubt, head into the wind.
With a jaunty, swinging step he sauntered along, and this time, at least, his tactics found an early reward. Topping the first large rise of ground, he saw in the hollow beneath him the outline of a large building. And as he approached it, the wind clearing a high blowing mist from the stars, he saw a jumble of outlying houses. Sheds, barns, corrals—it was the nucleus of a big ranch. It is a maxim that, if you wish to know a m
an look at his library and if you wish to know a rancher, look at his barn. Donnegan made a small detour to the left and headed for the largest of the barns.
He entered it by the big, sliding door, which stood open; he looked up, and saw the stars shining through a gap in the roof. And then he stood quietly for a time, listening to the voices of the wind in the ruin. Oddly enough, it was pleasant to Donnegan. His own troubles and sorrow had poured upon him so thickly in the past hour or so that it was soothing to find evidence of the distress of others. But perhaps this meant that the entire establishment was deserted.
He left the barn and went toward the house. Not until he was close under its wall did he come to appreciate its size. It was one of those great, rambling, two-storied structures which the cattle kings of the past generation were fond of building. Standing close to it, he heard none of the intimate sounds of the storm blowing through cracks and broken walls; no matter into what disrepair the barns had fallen, the house was still solid; only about the edges of the building the storm kept murmuring.
Yet there was not a light, neither above nor below. He came to the front of the house. Still no sign of life. He stood at the door and knocked loudly upon it, and though, when he tried the knob, he found that the door was latched, yet no one came in response. He knocked again, and putting his ear close he heard the echoes walk through the interior of the building.
The Second Western Megapack Page 111