by Max Brand
This, however, was something which he would not believe, no matter what testimony his eyes gave him. He rode up to a shuttered window and kicked it with his heel.
Only the echoes of that racket replied to him from the interior of the place. He swore, somewhat touched with awe, and kicked again.
A faint voice called: “Who’s there?”
“Steve Nash. What the devil’s happened to Eldara?”
The boards of the shutter stirred, opened, so that the man within could look out.
“Is it Steve, honest?”
“Damn it, Butler, don’t you know my voice? What’s turned Eldara into a cemetery?”
“Cemetery’s right. ‘Butch’ Conklin and his gang are going to raid the place to-night.”
“Butch Conklin?”
And Nash whistled long and low.
“But why the devil don’t the boys get together if they know Butch is coming with his gunmen?”
“That’s what they’ve done. Every able-bodied man in town is out in the hills trying to surprise Conklin’s gang before they hit town with their guns going.”
Butler was a one-legged man, so Nash kept back the question which naturally formed in his mind.
“How do they know Conklin is coming? Who gave the tip?”
“Conklin himself.”
“What? Has he been in town?”
“Right. Came in roaring drunk.”
“Why’d they let him get away again?”
“Because the sheriff’s a bonehead and because our marshal is solid ivory. That’s why.”
“What happened?”
“Butch came in drunk, as I was saying, which he generally is, but he wasn’t giving no trouble at all, and nobody felt particular called on to cross him and ask questions. He was real sociable, in fact, and that’s how the mess was started.”
“Go on. I don’t get your drift.”
“Everybody was treatin’ Butch like he was the king of the earth and not passin’ out any backtalk, all except one tenderfoot — —”
But here a stream of tremendous profanity burst from Nash. It rose, it rushed on, it seemed an exhaustless vocabulary built up by long practice on mustangs and cattle.
At length: “Is that damned fool in Eldara?”
“D’you know him?”
“No. Anyway, go on. What happened?”
“I was sayin’ that Butch was feelin’ pretty sociable. It went all right in the bars. He was in here and didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Even paid for all the drinks for everybody in the house, which nobody could ask more even from a white man. But then Butch got hungry and went up the street to Sally Fortune’s place.”
A snarl came from Nash.
“Did they let that swine go in there?”
“Who’d stop him? Would you?”
“I’d try my damnedest.”
“Anyway, in he went and got the centre table and called for ten dollars’ worth of bacon and eggs — which there hasn’t been an egg in Eldara this week. Sally, she told him, not being afraid even of Butch. He got pretty sore at that and said that it was a frame-up and everyone was ag’in’ him. But finally he allowed that if she’d sit down to the table and keep him company he’d manage to make out on whatever her cook had ready to eat.”
“And Sally done it?” groaned Nash.
“Sure; it was like a dare — and you know Sally. She’d risk her whole place any time for the sake of a bet.”
“I know it, but don’t rub it in.”
“She fetched out a steak and served Butch as if he’d been a king and then sat down beside him and started kiddin’ him along, with all the gang of us sittin’ or standin’ around and laughin’ fit to bust, but not loud for fear Butch would get annoyed.
“Then two things come in together and spoiled the prettiest little party that was ever started in Eldara. First was that player piano which Sally got shipped in and paid God-knows-how-much for; the second was this greenhorn I was tellin’ you about.”
“Go on,” said Nash, the little snarl coming back in his voice. “Tell me how the tenderfoot walked up and kicked Butch out of the place.”
“Somebody been tellin’ you?”
“No; I just been readin’ the mind of Eldara.”
“It was a nice play, though. This Bard — we found out later that was his name — walks in, takes a table, and not being served none too quick, he walks over and slips a nickel in the slot of the piano. Out she starts with a piece of rippin’ ragtime — you know how loud it plays? Butch, he kept on talkin’ for a minute, but couldn’t hear himself think. Finally he bellers: ‘Who turned that damned tin-pan loose?’
“This Bard walks up and bows. He says: ‘Sir, I came here to find food, and since I can’t get service, I’ll take music as a substitute.’
“Them was the words he used, Steve, honest to God. Used them to Butch!
“Well, Conklin was too flabbergasted to budge, and Bard, he leaned over and says to Sally: ‘This floor is fairly smooth. Suppose you and I dance till I get a chance to eat?’
“We didn’t know whether to laugh or to cheer, but most of us compromised by keeping an eye on Butch’s gun.
“Sally says, ‘Sure I’ll dance,’ and gets up.
“‘Wait!’ hollers Butch; ‘are you leavin’ me for this wall-eyed galoot?’
“There ain’t nothin’ Sally loves more’n a fight — we all know that. But this time I guess she took pity on the poor tenderfoot, or maybe she jest didn’t want to get her floor all messed up.
“‘Keep your hat on, Butch,’ she says, ‘all I want to do is to give him some motherly advice.’
“‘If you’re acting that part,’ says Bard, calm as you please, ‘I’ve got to tell mother that she’s been keeping some pretty bad company.’
“‘Some what?’ bellers Butch, not believin’ his ears.
“And young Bard, he steps around the girl and stands over Butch.
“‘Bad company is what I said,’ he repeats, ‘but maybe I can be convinced.’
“‘Easy,’ says Butch, and reaches for his gun.
“We all dived for the door, but me being held up on account of my missing leg, I was slow an’ couldn’t help seein’ what happened. Butch was fast, but the young feller was faster. He had Butch by the wrist before the gun came clear — just gave a little twist — and there he stood with the gun in his hand pointin’ into Butch’s face, and Butch sittin’ there like a feller in a trance or wakin’ up out of a bad dream.
“Then he gets up, slow and dignified, though he had enough liquor in him to float a ship.
“‘I been mobbed,’ he says, ‘it’s easy to see that. I come here peaceful and quiet, and here I been mobbed. But I’m comin’ back, boys, and I ain’t comin’ alone.’
“There was our chance to get him, while he was walking out of that place without a gun, but somehow nobody moved for him. He didn’t look none too easy, even without his shootin’ irons. Out he goes into the night, and we stood around starin’ at each other. Everybody was upset, except Sally and Bard.
“He says: ‘Miss Fortune, this is our dance, I think.’
“‘Excuse me,’ says Sally, ‘I almost forgot about it.’
“And they started to dance to the piano, waltzin’ around among the tables; the rest of us lit out for home because we knew that Butch would be on his way with his gang before we got very far under cover. But hey, Steve, where you goin’?”
“I’m going to get in on that dance,” called Nash, and was gone at a racing gallop down the street.
CHAPTER XVI
BLUFF
HE FOUND NO dance in progress, however, but in the otherwise empty eating place, which Sally owned and ran with her two capable hands and the assistance of a cook, sat Sally herself dining at the same table with the tenderfoot, the flirt, the horse-breaker, the tamer of gun-fighters.
Nash stood in the shadow of the doorway watching that lean, handsome face with the suggestion of mockery in the eyes and the trace of sternness aro
und the thin lips. Not a formidable figure by any means, but since his experiences of the past few days, Nash was grown extremely thoughtful.
What he finally thought he caught in this most unusual tenderfoot was a certain alertness of a more or less hair-trigger variety. Even now as he sat at ease at the table, one elbow resting lightly upon it, apparently enwrapped in the converse of Sally Fortune, Nash had a consciousness that the other might be on his feet and in the most distant part of the room within a second.
What he noted in the second instant of his observation was that Sally was not at all loath to waste her time on the stranger. She was eating with a truly formidable conventionality of manner, and a certain grace with which she raised the ponderous coffee cup, made of crockery guaranteed to resist all falls, struck awe through the heart of the cowpuncher. She was bent on another conquest, beyond all doubt, and that she would not make it never entered the thoughts of Nash. He set his face to banish a natural scowl and advanced with a good-natured smile into the room.
“Hello!” he called.
“It’s old Steve!” sang out Sally, and whirling from her chair, she advanced almost at a run to meet him, caught him by both hands, and led him to a table next to that at which she had been sitting.
It was as gracefully done as if she had been welcoming a brother, but Nash, knowing Sally, understood perfectly that it was only a play to impress the eye of Bard. Nevertheless he was forced to accept it in good part.
“My old pal, Steve Nash,” said Sally, “and this is Mr. Anthony Bard.”
Just the faintest accent fell on the “Mr.,” but it made Steve wince. He rose and shook hands gravely with the tenderfoot.
“I stopped at Butler’s place down the street,” he said, “and been hearin’ a pile about a little play you made a while ago. It was about time for somebody to call old Butch’s bluff.”
“Bluff?” cried Sally indignantly.
“Bluff?” queried Bard, with a slight raising of the eyebrows.
“Sure — bluff. Butch wasn’t any more dangerous than a cat with trimmed claws. But I guess you seen that?”
He settled down easily in his chair just as Sally resumed her place opposite Bard.
“Steve,” she said, with a quiet venom, “that bluff of his has been as good as four-of-a-kind with you for a long time. I never seen you make any play at Butch.”
He returned amiably: “Like to sit here and have a nice social chat,
Sally, but I got to be gettin’ back to the ranch, and in the meantime,
I’m sure hungry.”
At the reminder of business a green light came in the fine blue eyes of Sally. They were her only really fine features, for the nose tilted an engaging trifle, the mouth was a little too generous, the chin so strong that it gave, in moments of passivity, an air of sternness to her face. That sternness was exaggerated as she rose, keeping her glare fixed upon Nash; a thing impossible for him to bear, so he lowered his eyes and engaged in rolling a cigarette. She turned back toward Bard.
“Sorry I got to go — before I finished eating — but business is business.”
“And sometimes,” suggested Bard, “a bore.”
It was an excellent opening for a quarrel, but Nash was remembering religiously a certain thousand dollars, and also a gesture of William Drew when he seemed to be breaking an imaginary twig. So he merely lighted his cigarette and seemed to have heard nothing.
“The whole town,” he remarked casually, “seems scared stiff by this
Butch; but of course he ain’t comin’ back to-night.”
“I suppose,” said the tenderfoot, after a cold pause, “that he will not.”
But the coldness reacted like the most genial warmth upon Nash. He had chosen a part detestable to him but necessary to his business. He must be a “gabber” for the nonce, a free talker, a chatterer, who would cover up all pauses.
“Kind of strange to ride into a dark town like this,” he began, “but I could tell you a story about—”
“Oh, Steve,” called the voice of Sally from the kitchen.
He rose and nodded to Bard.
“‘Scuse me, I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Thanks,” answered the other, with a somewhat grim emphasis.
In the kitchen Sally spoke without prelude. “What deviltry are you up to now, Steve?”
“Me?” he repeated with eyes widened by innocence. “What d’you mean,
Sally?”
“Don’t four-flush me, Steve.”
“Is eating in your place deviltry?”
“Am I blind?” she answered hotly. “Have I got spring-halt, maybe? You’re too polite, Steve; I can always tell when you’re on the way to a little bell of your own making, by the way you get sort of kind and warmed up. What is it now?”
“Kiss me, Sally, and I’ll tell you why I came to town.”
She said with a touch of colour: “I’ll see you—” and then changing quickly, she slipped inside his ready arms with a smile and tilted up her face.
“Now what is it, Steve?”
“This,” he answered.
“What d’you mean?”
“You know me, Sally. I’ve worn out the other ways of raising hell, so I thought I’d start a little by coming to Eldara to kiss you.”
Her open hand cracked sharply twice on his lean face and she was out of his arms. He followed, laughing, but she armed herself with a red-hot frying pan and defied him.
“You ain’t even a good sport, Steve. I’m done with you! Kiss you?”
He said calmly: “I see the hell is startin’, all right.”
But she changed at once, and smiled up to him.
“I can’t stay mad at you, Steve. I s’pose it’s because of your nerve. I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“Is that a way to take it! I’ve asked you a favour, Steve.”
He said suspiciously: “It’s got something to do with the tenderfoot in the room out there?”
It was a palpable hit, for she coloured sharply. Then she took the bull by the horns.
“What if it is?”
“Sally, d’you mean to say you’ve fallen for that cheap line of lingo he passes out?”
“Steve, don’t try to kid me.”
“Why, you know who he is, don’t you?”
“Sure; Anthony Bard.”
“And do you know who Anthony Bard is?”
“Well?” she asked with some anxiety.
“Well, if you don’t know you can find out. That’s what the last girl done.”
She wavered, and then blinked her eyes as if she were resolved to shut out the truth.
“I asked you to do me a favour, Steve.”
“And I will. You know that.”
“I want you to see that Bard gets safe out of this town.”
“Sure. Nothing I’d rather do.”
She tilted her head a little to one side and regarded him wistfully.
“Are you double-crossin’ me, Steve?”
“Why d’you suspect me? Haven’t I said I’d do it?”
“But you said it too easy.”
The gentleness died in her face. She said sternly: “If you do double-cross me, you’ll find I’m about as hard as any man on the range. Get me?”
“Shake.”
Their hands met. After all, he did not guarantee what would happen to the tenderfoot after they were clear of the town. But perhaps this was a distinction a little too fine for the downright mind of the girl. A sea of troubles besieged the mind of Nash.
And to let that sea subside he wandered back to the eating room and found the tenderfoot finishing his coffee. The latter kept an eye of frank suspicion upon him. So the silence held for a brooding moment, until Bard asked: “D’you know the way to the ranch of William Drew?”
It was a puzzler to Nash. Was not that his job, to go out and bring the man to Drew’s place? Here he was already on the way. He remembered just in time that the manner of bringing was dec
idedly qualified.
He said aloud: “The way? Sure; I work on Drew’s place.”
“Really!”
“Yep; foreman.”
“You don’t happen to be going back that way to-night?”
“Not all the way; part of it.”
“Mind if I went along?”
“Nobody to keep you from it,” said the cowpuncher without enthusiasm.
“By the way, what sort of a man is Drew?”
“Don’t you know him?”
“No. The reason I want to see him is because I want to get the right to do some — er — fishing and hunting on a place of his on the other side of the range.”
“The place with the old house on it; the place Logan is?”
“Exactly. Also I wish to see Logan again. I’ve got several little things
I’d like to have him explain.”
“H-m!” grunted Nash without apparent interest.
“And Drew?”
“He’s a big feller; big and grey.”
“Ah-h-h,” said the other, and drew in his breath, as though he were drinking.
It seemed to Nash that he had never seen such an unpleasant smile.
“You’ll get what you want out of Drew. He’s generous.”
“I hope so,” nodded the other, with far-off eyes. “I’ve got a lot to ask of him.”
CHAPTER XVII
BUTCH RETURNS
HE REMINDED NASH of some big puma cub warming itself at a hearth like a common tabby cat, a tame puma thrusting out its claws and turning its yellow eyes up to its owner — tame, but with infinite possibilities of danger. For the information which Nash had given seemed to remove all his distrust of the moment before and he became instantly genial, pleasant. In fact, he voiced this sentiment with a disarming frankness immediately.
“Perhaps I’ve seemed to be carrying a chip on my shoulder, Mr. Nash. You see, I’m not long in the West, and the people I’ve met seem to be ready to fight first and ask questions afterward. So I’ve caught the habit, I suppose.”
“Which a habit like that ain’t uncommon. The graveyards are full of fellers that had that habit and they’re going to be fuller still of the same kind.”
Here Sally entered, carrying the meal of the cowpuncher, arranged it, and then sat on the edge of Bard’s table, turning from one to the other as a bird on a spray of leaves turns from sunlight to shadow and cannot make a choice.