Penny laid a brown hand on the solid arm of Yuma. She felt the hard muscles trembling at her touch.
“Forgive me, Yuma,” she said seriously, “I’m sorry. I want you to know that I do appreciate your offer and that you’ll be the first one I’ll call on if I need a friend.”
Yuma looked startled. “Yuh—yuh mean t-t-tuh say…that is, I mean—you—”
“My friends call me Penny.” The girl stuck her right hand out, man-style. “What say, Yuma?—let’s be friends.”
Yuma hurriedly wiped his right hand on his shirt. He clasped Penny’s hand as if it were a delicate thing that might break at a calloused touch. “G-gosh,” he said.
Penny left and ran toward Becky’s. Yuma watched the girl, who ran as gracefully as a fawn. He looked in awe at his hand, the hand that had touched the girl’s slim fingers. Once more he muttered, “Gosh.” He saw Las Vegas eyeing him. “Las Vegas,” he said to the mustang, “me an’ you are downright lucky critters, an’ the only difference is that you ain’t the brains tuh know it.”
CHAPTER VIII
A Matter of Murder
Tonto the Indian was breaking a trail across Thunder Mountain where it was said no horse could travel. In a cavern in Bryant’s Gap, a Texas Ranger tossed in the torture of fever and infection. In the Basin, Penelope Cavendish ran to a house whose door had been chalked by Death.
Penny was slightly out of breath from running when she opened the door of Becky’s home. The place was of one room, with a cloth partition at the far end shutting off the beds from view. Some of the children must have been in bed, for there were only two in sight, both whimpering and sweaty. The room was like an oven with heat from the stove and humidity from the recent rain. Mort was scolding the uncomprehending baby in the crib and the sobbing child who sat on the floor. Mort’s presence was a surprise. It must have been later than Penny had thought. He swung toward his cousin.
“What do you want here?” he demanded.
“Becky invited me for dinner,” lied Penny. “I hoped to get here in time to help her.” Brushing past Mort she said, “What can I do, Becky?”
The mother of many looked up with tired eyes from the stove.
“What’s the use?” she said.
“For dinner!” Mort’s voice was loud. “My, but ain’t we gettin’ to be the class. Invitin’ company for dinner.” He snatched a big spoon from a table and thrust it into a stew that was on the stove. “You call that swill dinner? You’d come here an’ eat the sort of truck she cooks?”
“Please be quiet a minute,” said Penny.
Becky broke in. “’Tain’t no use lyin’ about it, Penny. Mort ain’t no fool, an’ he knows yuh ain’t come tuh eat. Yuh come thinkin’ he’d whale me again tuhnite because he catched me in yer room this mornin’. He won’t though—yuh needn’t have no fear on that score.”
Mort looked at Becky with a surprise that equaled Penny’s. The tired drudge returned his stare.
“I mean it,” she said. The whimpering of the young ones ceased as they became absorbed in the adult conversation. “I’ve been licked by you fer the last time. Yuh beat me fer hearin’ things t’other night, but that beatin’ ain’t made me fergit what I heard. I know the kind of things that’s goin’ on in this Basin.”
“Yuh know too much,” retorted Mort, advancing on his wife with clenched fists. For an instant it looked as if the man were going to strike Becky.
“Go ahead,” cried Becky shrilly, “go on an’ knock me down an’ I’ll see to it that there ain’t no slip-up the next time I try tuh put you an’ yer pack of wolves where yuh belong!”
Penny darted a quick look at the children. They seemed fascinated by the argument between their parents. She felt the embarrassment the others lacked the grace to feel. She was frightened for Rebecca, but Rebecca was a changed personality who now seemed formidable.
“I thought the hull thing over, Mort Cavendish,” went on Rebecca, her dark eyes glowing with hatred and defiance. “I ain’t nothin’ tuh gain by seein’ the pack of you jailed. It don’t matter tuh me if you an’ Bryant an’ all the rest of yuh stay here or rot in jail.” Her bosom rose and fell quickly with the intensity of her outburst. “Or yuh c’n dangle at the end of a rope. I wouldn’t care. I’ve watched the lot of you Cavendishes, with yer stuck-up ‘holier-than-thou’ ways. I’m sick of yuh, but I aim tuh stay here just the same. You keep outen this house an’ leave me an’ the children alone an’ I’ll keep my lips buttoned up as tuh what I know about yuh! Lay hand on me again, an’ this time yuh won’t have the chance tuh kill off them that comes fer yuh!”
Mort looked apoplectic, as rage made his face deep scarlet. He trembled visibly with his effort to control himself.
“That’s my bargain, Mort—as long as I c’n be rid of you by keepin’ quiet with what I know, I’m satisfied tuh go on livin’ here an’ doin’ the best I can tuh raise the young’uns. Take it or leave it.”
Mort turned abruptly and strode from the house, banging the door closed.
“Pack of skunks,” fumed Becky to no one in particular. “It makes me sick, seein’ the way they all think I ain’t good enough fer ’em, while every last one o’ them is a thievin’ killer, takin’ orders from Bryant himself!”
“Becky,” said Penny, “you can say all you want to about Mort and Vince, or even Wallie and Jeb—”
“Say all I want about anyone!” snapped Becky, with a fire she’d never shown before.
“But when you call Uncle Bryant a crook, you’re mistaken,” continued the girl, ignoring the interruption. “I know Uncle Bryant is stern, he’s as hard as a hickory knot, and he’s unforgiving. He resents your being here and he’s been mighty mean to you, but he’s not a crook!”
“If he ain’t a crook, why does he let crooks hang out here? He ain’t blind, is he? And as for you, I don’t want none of yore sympathy or help, neither. Maybe I ain’t no fancy education or high-falutin’ clo’es, an’ my looks an’ figger ain’t what they was ten years ago, but I c’n hold my head high afore anyone an’ not have tuh admit that I got cousins an’ uncles that the law should o’ hung some time ago.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Becky. Now calm down and get that meal ready for the kids.”
“I don’t need you tuh tell me what tuh do,” cried the infuriated woman. “I done plenty of thinkin’ since this mornin’ when you the same as laughed at me fer tryin’ tuh warn yuh away from here. Yuh wouldn’t believe that this Basin is a hellhole, reekin’ with murder plans. All right, don’t believe me. I know what I heard in the cottonwoods, an’ I heard aplenty. I was a fool tuh send word tuh Captain Blythe o’ the Texas Rangers. All it got me was a beatin’ an’ all the Rangers done was tuh git themselves killed off. ’Stead o’ tellin’ what I know, I’ll keep it private an’ make that polecat husband of mine leave me alone tuh save his neck. I reckon he’ll keep outen my sight now, all right. He knows that I can fetch the law here any time I want.”
Glass from the window crashed in before the sound of the shot reached Penny’s ears. She instinctively knew it was a forty-five slug that tore through the window. Her startled half cry of alarm and surprise choked in her throat as she saw Rebecca spin halfway around from the impact of the lead and stagger giddily for several seconds. Then Penny clutched her about the waist and tried to guide her to a chair. Becky’s mouth dropped open, her hand clutched her breast, and she stared unbelievingly at the red that seeped between her fingers.
“Easy now,” said Penny, “take it easy, Becky.” The slim girl found the woman surprisingly heavy to support. She was compelled to ease her to the floor. She was only vaguely aware of the cries that came from the older children, who raced from beyond the curtains.
“It—it don’t hurt much,” faltered Becky. “I—I should o’ knowed better. Mort…Mort’s the one…mebbe now you’ll believe.…” Her voice was weak, so weak that Penny could barely understand what she was saying. Rebecca’s body trembled convulsively. Her eyelids
fluttered, then opened wide, and her dark eyes looked at Penny with a glaze over them.
“Now,” she began slowly, “now you’ll believe this Basin is a nest o’ killers.” The tired eyes closed. Penny lowered the woman’s head and felt for a pulse she knew was gone. The children crowded around, wide-eyed and unbelieving. The oldest boy said:
“Now Maw won’t have tuh be hurt by Pa no more.”
At the brave look in the pinched, small face, Penny choked up. She gathered the lad to her. “No, Billy, Maw won’t have any more pain of any sort, and don’t you worry. I’m going to take care of you little fellows.”
She would have said more, but another crash from outside interrupted. She raced for the window through which the previous bullet had come, and saw a startling sight. Mort Cavendish was clawing at his throat and staggering like a drunken man. But only for an instant. Then his legs caved as he crumpled to the ground.
Penny ran from the house and splashed through the puddles on the ground to where Mort lay. Yuma, running from another direction, reached the fallen man at about the same time.
“Stand back,” he said. “I’ll tend tuh things.” He rolled Mort over. The wound in the neck, just beneath the jawbone, was still clasped by the hand of the unconscious man. Red moisture seeped between his fingers. Yuma drew a bandanna from his pocket, then paused as he looked again at Penny. “I told yuh tuh stand back,” he said. “I got tuh have a look at this wound.”
“Go on and have a look,” snapped the girl. “Feel his pulse and see if he’s still alive.”
“He’s livin’, all right, but you vamoose—this mayn’t be a pleasant sight tuh see.”
“What do you take me for, a sissy? Pull his hand away, and let’s see how badly he’s hurt.”
Yuma nodded, muttering beneath his breath. Penny noticed that the big cowboy was now fully composed and at ease. He seemed competent and direct in manner. His flustered embarrassment of the corral was gone. He examined the wound with a skill that showed familiarity with such things. Though it bled profusely, Yuma said, “Just grazed him. I reckon he’ll live without no trouble.”
“If he lives, he’ll hang! He’s murdered Becky,” said Penny flatly. “And I hope he lives.”
Yuma, holding the bandanna against the wound, looked at the girl and spoke with an exasperating drawl.
“Maybe you ain’t heard straight, Miss Penny, but I tried tuh tell you a little while ago that they don’t hang killers in this Basin. What they do is tuh hire ’em an’ sleep ’em an’ eat ’em an’ keep ’em hid so’s the law cain’t git at ’em.”
Penny chose to let the speech pass for the time being. There were other things that needed attention. Yuma looked at the wound and commented, “Maybe I better put a tourniquet around his neck tuh stop the bleedin’.”
“A tourniquet would strangle him,” advised Penelope.
Yuma nodded. “I know it.”
Vince came running to investigate the shots, with Jeb ambling behind.
“Who done it, who shot him?” demanded Vince in a loud voice. He elbowed Yuma to one side and bent to examine the wound. “Better git him tuh the house; there’s more room there than here in the shack.” Yuma nodded silently. “Well, go on,” snapped Vince. “Pick him up an’ carry him to Bryant’s house.”
Penny watched the blond Yuma lift Mort off the ground as if he had been a baby. He tossed him over one shoulder as he might have done with a sack of flour and walked toward the house, followed by Vince. Penny turned abruptly and bumped into Jeb, who stood close behind her.
“Oh,” she said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back to Becky’s and take care of the children.”
Jeb nodded. “What o’ Becky?” he asked.
“Mort killed her. I don’t know who shot Mort.”
Jeb said, “Bryant himself done it. He’s standin’ on the porch with a rifle right now, watchin’ what goes on.”
Penny looked and found this to be true.
“His shootin’ Mort gives me cause fer a heap more thinkin’,” went on the leanest of the Cavendish men. “I figgered I had it all thought out, but this comes up an’ throws me off. Men with eyes that ain’t no good can’t shoot a rifle.”
“I’ve got to go to the poor children.”
“Wait, Penelope.” Jeb gripped the girl’s arm, and lowered his voice. “This is the start,” he said mysteriously. “But it ain’t the finish. Bryant is fixin’ tuh wear a shroud, too.”
CHAPTER IX
Bryant Talks
The wounded man in the cave sat with his back propped against the rocky wall, fully conscious and aware of his surroundings. For the first time in nearly forty-eight hours he was able to think clearly. Beside him there was a health-giving broth, and a sort of biscuit made by Tonto. The food was calculated to make rich blood and new strength in the shortest possible time.
The Texan had slept fitfully during the day, sipping the broth and nibbling food each time he wakened. Now, feeling well rested, he tried to piece the events of the past two days together. Most of the time was vague to him. He remembered that it had been night when he’d crawled, wounded, to the ledge after seeing Silver desert him. Morning light revealed the cave into which he had crept with his torment of pain. Tonto must have found him then, though he could recollect nothing of the Indian’s bandaging his shoulder. Most of that day, yesterday, he’d slept. Then, at sunset, Tonto had returned with food and herbs to dress his injuries.
He couldn’t remember much of what happened after that, but there were faint recollections of the Indian’s crude but nonetheless effective surgery, followed by applications of various sorts. Tonto had been with him all night, plying the skill of the Indian in combating illness. He remembered trying to ask Tonto what had become of Silver, but the Indian had said something about waiting till he was stronger before talking. Then Tonto had left and the wounded man had slept. Now, at sunset, the Indian was due to return.
The Texan examined the food near him and wondered where it came from. It wasn’t wild turkey that might have been shot by Tonto, neither was it game that might have been found in the woods. Tonto must have friends close by who supplied that food.
A little while ago, the Ranger had heard sounds that might have been shots, but they were far away. He couldn’t yet have implicit faith in all his senses. Now he heard what he thought might be hoofbeats, but again he wasn’t sure. He waited, and the sound came nearer. In a moment more there could be no doubt about the rhythmic tattoo on the rocks in the Gap. Horses, two at least, came close and stopped.
A moment later Tonto entered the cave. The Indian looked gratified when he saw that color had returned to the face of the Texan. He examined the wounded shoulder critically, and announced that the infection had gone down considerably and that now there was no longer any doubt about the Ranger’s full recovery.
“Me leave camp on mountain,” the Indian explained. “Fetch um Silver here.”
“Silver?”
“That right, him plenty safe here for time.” The Indian explained how huge rocks near the wall of the Gap made a satisfactory hiding place for both the Ranger’s white stallion and his own paint horse.
“Where was your camp, Tonto?”
Tonto told about the clearing on the side of Thunder Mountain and the trail that led from the clearing downhill to the Basin and uphill to the mountain’s top. From the top of the mountain it was possible, despite all rumors to the contrary, to ride in many directions.
“Then the Basin can be entered without going through this canyon?”
Tonto nodded.
“I’ve always been told that was impossible.”
“It not impossible. You see bimeby. Get rest first. Get well. Then we ride.”
The wounded man was eager to leave the cave and start upon a campaign of vengeance in behalf of his fallen comrades, but when he tried to rise, Tonto pressed him back to his seat.
“You wait,” he said. “You not ready yet.”
The effort made the
Ranger quite aware that he was still weaker than he had supposed.
While Tonto rebuilt a tiny smokeless fire of very dry bits of wood and prepared a new supply of hot food, he told how, the day before, he had ridden down the Gap to the spot where the massacre had taken place, and then heard shooting far beyond. He had risked discovery by going as far as the entrance of the Basin. From there he could see the activity around the house. He saw Mort’s body carried to the big ranch house and a little later saw the girl, Penelope, take the children to the same rambling structure. Then the body of Rebecca had been taken there. He told all this in his jerky, stilted manner while he put things on the fire to cook and then redressed the Ranger’s wounds.
“You need plenty more rest,” Tonto told the convalescent man. “We talk more bimeby.”
“But, Tonto, tell me more about what you’ve seen. Did you find or see anything of my guns and cartridge belt?”
“Talk more after you strong.”
“Have you any idea who ambushed us?”
“Me got plenty scheme,” the Indian said. “Talk bimeby.”
“It was you who called Silver away from me—I remember your night-bird’s call. Why did you do that?”
Tonto refused to give the Texan any satisfaction. He explained that he had several things that needed doing outside the cave, and that he was in something of a hurry to get away. He further impressed the wounded man with the importance of rest, then more rest, to give the healing broken flesh a chance to mend beyond the danger of tearing open anew.
The freshly made broth was steaming-hot and tasted good. When he finished drinking it, the Ranger felt drowsiness creeping over him again despite all of his recent sleep. The effort of even so short a talk with Tonto seemed to have tired him. He felt strangely secure, now that his Indian friend was with him. The sleep he needed now was natural sleep without the nightmares of the pain and fever.
Tonto watched the white man for some time and marked the regularity with which the sleeping man’s chest rose and fell. A trace of a smile showed on the thin lips.
The Second Western Megapack Page 141