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

by Unknown

  "Who is such a thorough friend of mine," the sheepman added with his sardonic grin.

  "What do you care about that? She's a girl. I don't know the facts, but I can guess them. She and Luck will stand pat on what they promised you. Don't you owe her something for that? Seems to me a white man wouldn't make her any more worry."

  "It's because I am a white man that I can't dodge a fight when it's stacked up for me, Bucky."

  He said it with a dogged finality that was unshaken, but O'Connor made one more effort.

  "Nobody will know why you left."

  "I would know, wouldn't I? I've got to go right on living with myself. I tell you straight I'm going to see it out."

  Bucky's jaw clamped. "Not if I know it. You're under arrest."

  Fendrick sat up in surprise. "What for?" he demanded angrily.

  "For robbing the W. & S. Express Company."

  "Hell, Bucky. You don't believe that."

  "Never mind what I believe. There's some evidence against you--enough to justify me."

  "You want to get me out of Cullison's way. That's all."

  "If you like to put it so."

  "I won't stand for it. That ain't square."

  "You'll stand for it, my friend. I gave you a chance to clear out and you wouldn't take it."

  "I wouldn't because I couldn't. Don't make any mistake about this. I'm not looking for Luck. I'm attending to my business. Arrest him if you want to stop trouble."

  There came a knock on the door. It opened to admit Luck Cullison. He shut it and put his back to it, while his eyes, hard as hammered iron, swept past the officer to fix on Fendrick.

  The latter rose quickly from the bed, but O'Connor flung him back.

  "Don't forget you're my prisoner."

  "He's your prisoner, is he?" This was a turn of affairs for which Luck was manifestly unprepared: "Well, I've come to have a little settlement with him."

  Fendrick, tense as a coiled spring, watched him warily. "Can't be any too soon to suit me."

  Clear cut as a pair of scissors through paper, Bucky snapped out his warning. "Nothing stirring, gentlemen. I'll shoot the first man that makes a move."

  "Are you in this, Bucky?" asked Cullison evenly.

  "You're right I am. He's my prisoner."

  "What for?"

  "For robbing the W. & S."

  Luck's face lit. "Have you evidence enough to cinch him?"

  "Not enough yet. But I'll take no chances on his getting away."

  The cattleman's countenance reflected his thoughts as his decision hung in the balance. He longed to pay his debt on the spot. But on the other hand he had been a sheriff himself. As an outsider he had no right to interfere between an officer and his captive. Besides, if there was a chance to send Fendrick over the road that would be better than killing. It would clear up his own reputation, to some extent under a cloud.

  "All right, Bucky. If the law wants him I'll step aside for the time."

  The sheepman laughed in his ironic fashion. His amusement mocked them both. "Most as good as a play of the movies, ain't it? But we'd ought all to have our guns out to make it realistic."

  But in his heart he did not jeer. For the situation had been nearer red tragedy than melodrama. The resource and firmness of Bucky O'Connor had alone made it possible to shave disaster by a hair's breadth and no more.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A CONVERSATION

  Bucky O'Connor and his prisoner swung down the street side by side and turned in at the headquarters of the rangers. The officer switched on the light, shut the door, and indicated a chair. From his desk he drew a box of cigars. He struck a match and held it for the sheepman before using it himself.

  Relaxed in his chair, Fendrick spoke with rather elaborate indolence.

  "What's your evidence, Bucky? You can't hold me without any. What have you got that ties me to the W. & S. robbery?"

  "Why, that hat play, Cass? You let on you had shot Cullison's hat off his head while he was making his getaway. Come to find out you had his hat in your possession all the time."

  "Does that prove I did it myself?"

  "Looks funny you happened to be right there while the robbery was taking place and that you had Luck's hat with you."

  The sleepy tiger look lay warily in the sheepman's eyes. "That's what the dictionaries call a coincidence, Bucky."

  "They may. I'm not sure I do."

  "Fact, just the same."

  "I've a notion it will take some explaining."

  "Confidentially?"

  "Confidentially what?"

  "The explanation. You won't use it against me."

  "Not if you weren't in the hold-up."

  "I wasn't. This is the way it happened. You know Cullison was going to prove up on that Del Oro claim on Thursday. That would have put the C. F. ranch out of business. I knew he was in town and at the Del Mar, but I didn't know where he would be next day. He had me beat. I couldn't see any way out but to eat crow and offer a compromise. I hated it like hell, but it was up to me to hunt Luck up and see what he would do. His hat gave me an excuse to call. So I started out and came round the corner of San Mateo Street just in time to see the robber pull out. Honest, the fellow did shape up a little like Luck. Right then I got the darned fool notion of mixing him up in it. I threw his hat down and shot a hole in it, then unlocked the door of the express office carrying the hat in my hand. That's all there was to it."

  "Pretty low-down trick, wasn't it, to play on an innocent man?"

  "He was figuring to do me up. I don't say it was exactly on the square, but I was sore at him clear through. I wanted to get him into trouble. I had to do something to keep his mind busy till I could turn round and think of a way out."

  Bucky reflected, looking at the long ash on his cigar. "The man that made the raid of the W. & S. shaped up like Luck, you say?"

  "In a general way."

  The ranger brushed the ash from the end of the cigar into the tray. Then he looked quietly at Fendrick. "Who was the man, Cass?"

  "I thought I told you----"

  "You did. But you lied. It was a moonlight night. And there's an arc light at that corner. By your own story, the fellow took his mask off as he swung to his horse. You saw his face just as distinctly as I see yours now."

  "No, I reckon not," Fendrick grinned.

  "Meaning you won't tell?"

  "That's not how I put it, Bucky. You're the one that says I recognized him. Come to think of it, I'm not sure the fellow didn't wear his mask till he was out of sight."

  "I am."

  "You are."

  "Yes. The mask was found just outside the office where the man dropped it before he got into the saddle."

  "So?"

  "That's not all. Curly and I found something else, too--the old shirt from which the cloth was cut."

  The sheepman swept him with one of his side-long, tiger-cat glances. "Where did you find it?"

  "In a barrel back of the Jack of Hearts."

  "Now, if you only knew who put it there," suggested Cass, with ironic hopefulness.

  "It happens I do. I have a witness who saw a man shove that old shirt down in the barrel after tearing a piece off."

  "Your witness got a name, Bucky?"

  "I'll not mention the name now. If it became too well known something might happen to my witness."

  Fendrick nodded. "You're wiser there. She wouldn't be safe, not if a certain man happened to hear what you've just told me."

  "I didn't say she, Cass."

  "No, I said it. Your witness is Mrs. Wylie."

  "Maybe, then, you can guess the criminal, too."

  "Maybe I could, but I'm not going to try."

  "Then we'll drop that subject. I'll ask you a question. Can you tell me where I can find a paroled convict named Blackwell?"

  Fendrick shook his head. "Don't know the gentleman. A friend of yours?"

  "One of yours. Better come through, Cass. I'm satisfied you weren't actually in this robb
ery, but there is such a thing as accessory after the fact. Now, I'm going to get that man. If you want to put yourself right, it's up to you to give me the information I want. Where is he?"

  "Haven't got him in my pocket."

  The officer rose, not one whit less amiable. "I didn't expect you to tell me. That's all right. I'll find him. But in the meantime I'll have to lock you up till this thing is settled."

  From his inside coat pocket, Fendrick drew a sealed envelope, wrote the date across the front, and handed it to O'Connor.

  "Keep this, Bucky, and remember that I gave it to you. Put it in a safe place, but don't open the envelope till I give the word. Understand?"

  "I hear what you say, but I don't understand what you mean--what's back of it."

  "It isn't intended that you should yet. I'm protecting myself. That's all."

  "I guessed that much. Well, if you're ready, I'll arrange your lodgings for the night, Cass. I reckon I'll put you up at a hotel with one of the boys."

  "Just as you say."

  Fendrick rose, and the two men passed into the street.

  CHAPTER XIV

  A TOUCH OF THE THIRD DEGREE

  Cullison was not the man to acknowledge himself beaten so long as there was a stone unturned. In the matter of the Del Oro homestead claim he moved at once. All of the county commissioners were personal friends of his, and he went to them with a plan for a new road to run across the Del Oro at the point where the cañon walls opened to a valley.

  "What in Mexico is the good of a county road there, Luck? Can't run a wagon over them mountains and down to the river. Looks to me like it would be a road from nowhere to nowhere," Alec Flandrau protested, puzzled at his friend's request.

  "I done guessed it," Yesler announced with a grin. "Run a county road through, and Cass Fendrick can't fence the river off from Luck's cows. Luck ain't aiming to run any wagon over that road."

  The Map of Texas man got up and stamped with delight. "I get you. We'll learn Cass to take a joke, by gum. Luck sure gets a county road for his cows to amble over down to the water. Cass can have his darned old homestead now."

  When Fendrick heard that the commissioners had condemned a right of way for a road through his homestead he unloaded on the desert air a rich vocabulary. For here would have been a simple way out of his trouble if he had only thought of it. Instead of which he had melodramatically kidnapped his enemy and put himself within reach of the law and of Cullison's vengeance.

  Nor did Luck confine his efforts to self-defense. He knew that to convict Fendrick of the robbery he must first lay hands upon Blackwell.

  It was, however, Bucky that caught the convict. The two men met at the top of a mountain pass. Blackwell, headed south, was slipping down toward Stone's horse ranch when they came face to face. Before the bad man had his revolver out, he found himself looking down the barrel of the ranger's leveled rifle.

  "I wouldn't," Bucky murmured genially.

  "What you want me for?" Blackwell demanded sulkily.

  "For the W. & S. robbery."

  "I'm not the man you want. My name's Johnson."

  "I'll put up with you till I find the man I do want, Mr. Johnson," Bucky told him cheerfully. "Climb down from that horse. No, I wouldn't try that. Keep your hands up."

  With his prisoner in front of him, O'Connor turned townward. They jogged down out of the hills through dark gulches and cactus-clad arroyos. The sharp catclaw caught at their legs. Tangled mesquite and ironwood made progress slow. They reached in time Apache Desert, and here Bucky camped. He hobbled his prisoner's feet and put around his neck a rope, the other end of which was tied to his own waist. Then he built a small fire of greasewood and made coffee for them both. The prisoner slept, but his captor did not. For he could take no chances of an escape.

  The outlines of the mountain ranges loomed shadowy and dim on both sides. The moonlight played strange tricks with the mesquit and the giant cactus, a grove of which gave to the place an awesome aspect of some ghostly burial ground of a long vanished tribe.

  Next day they reached Saguache. Bucky took his prisoner straight to the ranger's office and telephoned to Cullison.

  "Don't I get anything to eat?" growled the convict while they waited.

  "When I'm ready."

  Bucky believed in fair play. The man had not eaten since last night. But then neither had he. It happened that Bucky was tough as whipcord, as supple and untiring as a hickory sapling. Well, Blackwell was a pretty hard nut to crack, too. The lieutenant did not know anything about book psychology, but he had observed that hunger and weariness try out the stuff that is in a man. Under the sag of them many a will snaps that would have held fast if sustained by a good dinner and a sound night's sleep. This is why so many "bad men," gun fighters with a reputation for gameness, wilt on occasion like whipped curs. In the old days this came to nearly every terror of the border. Some day when he had a jumping toothache, or when his nerves were frayed from a debauch, a silent stranger walked into his presence, looked long and steadily into his eyes, and ended forever his reign of lawlessness. Sometimes the two-gun man was "planted," sometimes he subsided into innocuous peace henceforth.

  The ranger had a shrewd instinct that the hour had come to batter down this fellow's dogged resistance. Therefore he sent for Cullison, the man whom the convict most feared.

  The very look of the cattleman, with that grim, hard, capable aspect, shook Blackwell's nerve.

  "So you've got him, Bucky."

  Luck looked the man over as he sat handcuffed beside the table and read in his face both terror and a sly, dogged cunning. Once before the fellow had been put through the third degree. Something of the sort he fearfully expected now. Villainy is usually not consistent. This hulking bully should have been a hardy ruffian. Instead, he shrank like a schoolgirl from the thought of physical pain.

  "Stand up," ordered Cullison quietly.

  Blackwell got to his feet at once. He could not help it, even though the fear in his eyes showed that he cowered before the anticipated attack.

  "Don't hit me," he whined.

  Luck knew the man sweated under the punishment his imagination called up, and he understood human nature too well to end the suspense by making real the vision. For then the worst would be past, since the actual is never equal to what is expected.

  "Well?" Luck watched him with the look of tempered steel in his hard eyes.

  The convict flinched, moistened his lips with his tongue, and spoke at last.

  "I--I--Mr. Cullison, I want to explain. Every man is liable to make a mistake--go off half cocked. I didn't do right. That's a fac'. I can explain all that, but I'm sick now--awful sick."

  Cullison laughed harshly. "You'll be sicker soon."

  "You promised you wouldn't do anything if we turned you loose," the man plucked up courage to remind him.

  "I promised the law wouldn't do anything. You'll understand the distinction presently."

  "Mr. Cullison, please---- I admit I done wrong. I hadn't ought to have gone in with Cass Fendrick. He wanted me to kill you, but I wouldn't."

  With that unwinking gaze the ranchman beat down his lies, while fear dripped in perspiration from the pallid face of the prisoner.

  Bucky had let Cullison take the center of the stage. He had observed a growing distress mount and ride the victim. Now he stepped in to save the man with an alternative at which Blackwell might be expected not to snatch eagerly perhaps, but at least to be driven toward.

  "This man is my prisoner, Mr. Cullison. From what I can make out you ought to strip his hide off and hang it up to dry. But I've got first call on him. If he comes through with the truth about the W. & S. Express robbery, I've got to protect him."

  Luck understood the ranger. They were both working toward the same end. The immediate punishment of this criminal was not the important issue. It was merely a club with which to beat him into submission, and at that a moral rather than a physical one. But the owner of the Circle C knew better t
han to yield to Bucky too easily. He fought the point out with him at length, and finally yielded reluctantly, in such a way as to aggravate rather than relieve the anxiety of the convict.