The Collected Westerns of William MacLeod Raine: 21 Novels in One Volume

by Unknown

  Yet he gave no sign of what he knew. As daylight came, so that they could see each other distinctly, his face showed no shadow of doubt. It was his cue to be a simple victim of credulity, and he played it to the finish.

  Without warning, through a narrow gulch which might have been sought in vain for ten years by a stranger, they passed into the rim of a bowl-shaped valley. Timber covered it from edge to edge, but over to the left a keen eye could see a thinning of the foliage. Toward this they went, following the sidehill and gradually dipping down through heavy underbrush. Before him the officer of rangers saw daylight, and presently a corral, low roofs, and grazing horses.

  "Looks like some one lives here," he remarked amiably.

  They were already riding into the open. In front of one of the log cabins the man who had called himself Flatray swung from his saddle.

  "Better 'light, lieutenant," he suggested carelessly. "We'll eat breakfast here."

  "Don't care if we do. I could eat a leather mail sack, I'm that hungry," the ranger answered, as he, too, descended.

  His guide was looking at him with an expression of open, malevolent triumph. He could scarce keep it back long enough to get the effect he wanted.

  "Yes, we'll eat breakfast here--and dinner, and supper, and breakfast to-morrow, and then about two more breakfasts."

  "I reckon we'll be too busy to sit around here," laughed his prisoner.

  The other ignored his comment. "And after that, it ain't likely you'll do much more eating."

  "I don't quite get the point of that joke."

  "You'll get it soon enough! You'd savez it now, if you weren't a muttonhead. As it is, I'll have to explain it. Do you remember capturing Tony Chaves two years ago, lieutenant?"

  The ranger nodded, with surprise in his round, innocent eyes.

  "What happened to him?" demanded the other. A child could have seen that he was ridden by a leering, savage triumph.

  "Killed trying to escape four days later."

  "Who killed him?"

  "I did. It was necessary. I regretted it."

  A sudden spasm of cruelty swept over the face of the man confronting him. "Tony was my partner."

  "Your partner?"

  "That's right. I've been wanting to say 'How d'ye do?' ever since, Lieutenant O'Connor. I'm right glad to meet you."

  "But--I don't understand." He did, however.

  "It'll soak through, by and by. Chew on this: You've got just ninety-six hours to live--exactly as long as Tony lived after you caught him! You'll be killed trying to escape. It will be necessary, just as you say it was with him; but I reckon I'll not do any regretting to speak of."

  "You would murder me?"

  "Well, I ain't particular about the word I use." MacQueen leaned against the side of his horse, his arm thrown across its neck, and laughed in slow maliciousness. "Execute is the word I use, though--if you want to know."

  He had made no motion toward his weapon, nor had O'Connor; but the latter knew without looking that he was covered vigilantly by both of the other men.

  "And who are you?" the ranger asked, though he was quite sure of the answer.

  "Men call me Black MacQueen," drawled the other.

  "MacQueen! But you said----"

  "That I was Flatray. Yep--I lied."

  O'Connor appeared to grope with this in amazement.

  "One has to stretch the truth sometimes in my profession," went on the outlaw smoothly. "It may interest you to know that yesterday I passed as Lieutenant O'Connor. When I was O'Connor I arrested Flatray; and now that I am Flatray I have arrested O'Connor. Turn about is fair play, you know."

  "Interesting, if true," O'Connor retorted easily.

  "You can bank on its truth, my friend."

  "And you're actually going to kill me in cold blood."

  The black eyes narrowed. "Just as I would a dog," said the outlaw, with savage emphasis.

  "I don't believe it. I've done you no harm."

  MacQueen glanced at him contemptuously. The famous Bucky O'Connor looked about as competent as a boy in the pimply age.

  "I thought you had better sense. Do you think I would have brought you to Dead Man's Cache if I had intended you to go away alive? I'm afraid, Lieutenant Bucky O'Connor, that you're a much overrated man. Your reputation sure would have blown up, if you had lived. You ought to thank me for preserving it."

  "Preserving it--how?"

  "By bumping you off before you've lost it."

  "Sho! You wouldn't do that," the ranger murmured ineffectively.

  "We'll see. Jeff, I put him in your charge. Search him, and take him to Hank's cabin. I hold you responsible for him. Bring me any papers you find on him. When I find time, I'll drop around and see that you're keeping him safe."

  Bucky was searched, and his weapons and papers removed. After being handcuffed, he was chained to a heavy staple, which had been driven into one of the log walls. He was left alone, and the door was locked; but he could hear Jeff moving about outside.

  With the closing of the door the vacuous look slipped from his face like a mask. The loose-lipped, lost-dog expression was gone. He looked once more alert, competent, fit for the emergency. It had been his cue to let his adversary underestimate him. During the long night ride he had had chances to escape, had he desired to do so. But this had been the last thing he wanted.

  The outlaws had chosen to take him to their fastness in the hills. He would back himself to use the knowledge they were thrusting upon him, to bring about their undoing. Only one factor in the case had come upon him as a surprise. He had not reckoned that they would have a personal grudge against him. And this was a factor that might upset all his calculations.

  It meant that he was playing against time, with the chances of the game all against him. He had forty-eight hours in which to escape--and he was handcuffed, chained, locked up, and guarded. Truly, the outlook was not radiant.

  CHAPTER V

  A PHOTOGRAPH

  On the third morning Beauchamp Lee returned to Mesa--unshaven, dusty, and fagged with hard riding. He brought with him a handbill which he had picked up in the street. Melissy hung over him and ministered to his needs. While he was eating breakfast he talked.

  "No luck yet, honey. He's hiding in some pocket of the hills, I reckon; and likely there he'll stay till the hunt is past. They don't make them any slicker than Dunc, dad gum his ugly hide!"

  "What is that paper?" his daughter asked.

  Lee curbed a disposition toward bad language, as he viewed it with disgust. "This here is bulletin number one, girl. It's the cheekiest, most impudent thing I ever saw. MacQueen serves notice to all the people of this county to keep out of this fight. Also, he mentions me and Jack Flatray by name--warning us that, if we sit in the game, hell will be popping for us."

  "What will you do?"

  "Do? I'll get back to my boys fast as horseflesh will get me there, once I've had a talk with that beef buyer from Kansas City I made an appointment to see before this thing broke loose. You don't allow I'm going to let any rustler dictate to me what I'll do and what I won't--do you?"

  "Where do you reckon he had this printed?" she asked.

  "I don't reckon, I know. Late last night a masked man woke up Jim Snell. You know, he sleeps in a room at the back of the printing office. Well, this fellow made him dress, set up this bill, and run off five hundred copies while he stood over him. I'll swan I never heard of such cheek!"

  Melissy told what she had to tell--after which her father shaved, took a bath, and went out to meet the buyer from Kansas City. His business kept him until noon. After dinner Melissy's saddle horse was brought around, and she joined her father to ride back with him for a few miles.

  About three o'clock she kissed him good-bye, and turned homeward. After she had passed the point where the Silver Creek trail ran into the road she heard the sound of a galloping horse behind. A rider was coming along the trail toward town. He gained on her rapidly, and presently a voice hailed her gayl
y:

  "The top o' the mornin' to you, Miss 'Lissie."

  She drew up to wait for him. "My name is still Miss Lee," she told him mildly, by way of correction.

  "I'm glad it is, but we can change it in three minutes at any time, my dear," he laughed.

  She had been prepared to be more friendly toward him, but at this she froze again.

  "Did you leave Mrs. O'Connor and the children well?" she asked pointedly, looking directly at him.

  His smile vanished, and he stared at her in a very strange fashion. She had taken the wind completely out of his sails. It had not occurred to him that O'Connor might be a married man. Nor did he know but that it might be a trick to catch him. He did the only thing he could do--made answer in an ironic fashion, which might mean anything or nothing.

  "Very well, thank you."

  She saw at once that the topic did not allure him, and pushed home her advantage. "You must miss Mrs. O'Connor when you are away on duty."

  "Must I?"

  "And the children, too. By the way, what are their names?"

  "You're getting up a right smart interest in my family, all of a sudden," he countered.

  "One can't talk about the weather all the time."

  He boldly decided to slay the illusion of domesticity. "If you want to know, I have neither wife nor children."

  "But I've heard about them all," she retorted.

  "You have heard of Mrs. O'Connor, no doubt; but she happens to be the wife of a cousin of mine."

  The look which she flashed at him held more than doubt.

  "You don't believe me?" he continued. "I give you my word that I'm not married."

  They had left the road, and were following a short cut which wound down toward Tonti, in and out among the great boulders. The town, dwarfed to microscopic size by distance, looked, in the glare of the sunlight, as if it were made of white chalk. Along the narrow trail they went singly, Melissy leading the way.

  She made no answer, but at the first opportunity he forced his horse to a level with hers.

  "Well--you heard what I said," he challenged.

  "The subject is of no importance to me," she said.

  "It's important to me. I'm not going to have you doing me an injustice. I tell you I'm not married. You've got to believe me."

  Her mind was again alive with suspicions. Jack had told her Bucky O'Connor was married, and he must have known what he was talking about.

  "I don't know whether you are married or not. I am of the opinion that Lieutenant O'Connor has a wife and three children. More than once I have been told so," she answered.

  "You seem to know a heap about the gentleman."

  "I know what I know."

  "More than I do, perhaps," he suggested.

  Her eyes dilated. He could see suspicion take hold of her.

  "Perhaps," she answered quietly.

  "Does that mean you think I'm not Bucky O'Connor?" He had pushed his pony forward so as to cut off her advance, and both had halted for the moment.

  She looked at him with level, fearless eyes. "I don't know who you are."

  "But you think I'm not Lieutenant O'Connor of the rangers?"

  "I don't know whether you are or not."

  "There is nothing like making sure. Just look over this letter, please."

  She did so. It was from the governor of the Territory to the ranger officer. While he was very complimentary as to past services, the governor made it plain that he thought O'Connor must at all hazards succeed in securing the release of Simon West. This would be necessary for the good name of the Territory. Otherwise, a widespread report would go out that Arizona was a lawless place in which to live.

  Melissy folded the letter and handed it back. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant O'Connor. I see that I was wrong."

  "Forget it, my dear. We all make mistakes." He had that curious mocking smile which so often hovered about his lips. She felt as though he were deriding her--as though his words held some hidden irony which she could not understand.

  "The governor seems very anxious to have you succeed. It will be a black eye for Arizona if this band of outlaws is not apprehended. You don't think, do you, that they will do Mr. West any harm, if their price is not paid? They would never dare."

  He took this up almost as though he resented it. "They would dare anything. I reckon you'll have to get up early in the mornin' to find a gamer man than Black MacQueen."

  "I wouldn't call it game to hurt an old man whom he has in his power. But you mustn't let it come to that. You must save him. Are you making any progress? Have you run down any of the band? And while I think of it--have you seen to-day's paper?"

  "No--why?"

  "The biggest story on the front page is about the West case. It seems that this MacQueen wired to Chicago to Mr. Lucas, president of one of the lines on the Southwestern system, that they would release Mr. West for three hundred thousand dollars in gold. He told him a letter had been mailed to the agent at Mesa, telling under just what conditions the money was to be turned over; and he ended with a threat that, if steps were taken to capture the gang, or if the money were not handed over at the specified time, Mr. West would disappear forever."

  "Did the paper say whether the money would be turned over?"

  "It said that Mr. Lucas was going to get into touch with the outlaws at once, to effect the release of his chief."

  A gleam of triumph flashed in the eyes of the man. "That's sure the best way."

  "It won't help your reputation, will it?" she asked. "Won't people say that you failed on this case?"

  He laughed softly, as if at some hidden source of mirth. "I shouldn't wonder if they did say that Bucky O'Connor hadn't made good this time. They'll figure he tried to ride herd on a job too big for him."

  Her surprised eye brooded over this, too. Here he was defending the outlaw chief, and rejoicing at his own downfall. There seemed to be no end to the contradictions in this man. She was to run across another tangled thread of the puzzle a few minutes later.

  She had dismounted to let him tighten the saddle cinch. Owing to the heat, he had been carrying his coat in front of him. He tossed it on a boulder by the side of the trail, in such a way that the inside pocket hung down. From it slid some papers and a photograph. Melissy looked down at the picture, then instantly stooped and picked it up. For it was a photograph of a very charming woman and three children, and across the bottom of it was written a line.

  "To Bucky, from his loving wife and children."

  The girl handed it to the man without a word, and looked him full in the face.

  "Bowled out, by ginger!" he said, with a light laugh.

  But as she continued to look at him--a man of promise, who had plainly traveled far on the road to ruin--the conviction grew on her that the sweet-faced woman in the photograph was no loving wife of his. He was a man who might easily take a woman's fancy, but not one to hold her love for years through the stress of life. Moreover, Bucky O'Connor held the respect of all men. She had heard him spoken of, and always with a meed of affection that is given to few men. Whoever this graceless scamp was, he was not the lieutenant of rangers.

  The words slipped out before she could stop them: "You're not Lieutenant O'Connor at all."

  "Playing on that string again, are you?" he jeered.

  "I'm sure of it this time."

  "Since you know who I'm not, perhaps you can tell me, too, who I am."

  In that instant before she spoke, while her steady eyes rested on him, she put together many things which had puzzled her. All of them pointed to one conclusion. Even now her courage did not fail her. She put it into words quietly:

  "You are that villain Black MacQueen."

  He stared at her in surprise. "By God, girl--you're right. I'm MacQueen, though I don't know how you guessed it."

  "I don't know how I kept from guessing it so long. I can see it, now, as plain as day, in all that you have done."

  After that they measured strength silen
tly with their eyes. If the situation had clarified itself, with the added knowledge of the girl had come new problems. Let her return to Mesa, and he could no longer pose as O'Connor; and it was just the audacity of this double play that delighted him. He was the most reckless man on earth; he loved to take chances. He wanted to fool the officers to his heart's content, and then jeer at them afterward. Hitherto everything had come his way.