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

by Unknown

  But Johnnie free had no idea what to do. He was as helpless as Johnnie imprisoned in the flying cab. Of what Clay's plan had been he had not the remotest idea. Yet he could not go home and do nothing. He must keep searching. But where? One thing stuck in his mind. His friend had mentioned that he would like to get a chance to call the police to find out whether Kitty had been rescued. He was anxious on that point himself. At the first cigar-store he stopped and was put on the wire with headquarters. He learned that a car supposed to be the one wanted had been driven into Central Park by the police a few minutes earlier.

  Johnnie's mind carried him on a straight line to the simplest decision. He ran across to Fifth Avenue and climbed into a bus going uptown. If Kitty was in Central Park that was the place to search for her. It did not occur to him that by the time he reached there the car of the abductors would be miles away, nor did he stop to think that his chances of finding her in the wooded recesses of the Park would not be worth the long end of a hundred to one bet.

  At the Seventy-Second Street entrance Johnnie left the bus and plunged into the Park. He threaded his way along walks beneath the dripping trees. He took a dozen shower baths under water-laden shrubbery. Sometimes he stopped to let out the wild war-whoop with which he turned cattle at the point in the good old days a month or so ago.

  The gods are supposed to favor fools, children, and drunken men. Johnnie had been all of these in his day. To-night he could claim no more than one at most of these reasons for a special dispensation. He would be twenty-three "comin' grass," as he would have expressed it, and he hadn't taken a drink since he came to New York, for Clay had voted himself dry years ago and just now he carried his follower with him.

  But the impish gods who delight in turning upside down the best-laid plans of mice and men were working overtime to-night. They arranged it that a girl cowering among the wet bushes bordering an unfrequented path heard the "Hi--yi--yi" of Arizona and gave a faint cry for help. That call reached Johnnie and brought him on the run.

  A man beside the girl jumped up with a snarl, gun in hand.

  But the Runt had caught a sight of Kitty. A file of fixed bayonets could not have kept him from trying to rescue her. He dived through the brush like a football tackler.

  A gun barked. The little man did not even know it. He and the thug went down together, rolled over, clawed furiously at each other, and got to their feet simultaneously. But the cowpuncher held the gun now. The crook glared at him for a moment, and bolted for the safety of the bushes in wild flight.

  Johnnie fired once, then forgot all about the private little war he had started. For his arms were full of a sobbing Kitty who clung to him while she wept and talked and exclaimed all in a breath.

  "I knew you'd come, Johnnie. I knew you would--you or Clay. They left me here with him while they got away from the police. . . . Oh, I've been so scared. I didn't know--I thought--"

  "'S all right. 'S all right, li'l' girl. Don't you cry, Kitty. Me 'n' Clay won't let 'em hurt you none. We sure won't."

  "They said they'd come back later for me," she wept, uncertain whether to be hysterical or not.

  "I wisht they'd come now," he bragged valorously, and for the moment he did.

  She nestled closer, and Johnnie's heart lost a beat. He had become aware of a dull pain in the shoulder and of something wet trickling down his shoulder. But what is one little bullet in your geography when the sweetest girl in the world is in your arms?

  "I ain't nothin' but a hammered-down li'l' hayseed of a cowpuncher," he told her, his voice trembling, "an' you're awful pretty an'--an'--"

  A flag of color fluttered to her soft cheeks. The silken lashes fell shyly. "I think you're fine and dandy, the bravest man that ever was."

  "Do you--figure you could--? I--I--I don't reckon you could ever--"

  He stopped, abashed. To him this creature of soft curves was of heaven-sent charm. All the beauty and vitality of her youth called to him. It seemed to Johnnie that God spoke through her. Which is another way of saying that he was in love with her.

  She made a rustling little stir in his arms and lifted a flushed face very tender and appealing. In the darkness her lips slowly turned to his.

  Johnnie chose that inopportune moment to get sick at the stomach.

  "I--I'm goin' to faint," he announced, and did. When he returned to his love-story Johnnie's head was in Kitty's lap and a mounted policeman was in the foreground of the scene. His face was wet from the mist of fine rain falling.

  "Don't move. Some one went for a car," she whispered, bending over him so that flying tendrils of her hair brushed his cheek. "Are you--badly hurt?"

  He snorted. "I'm a false alarm. Nothin' a-tall. He jes' creased me."

  "You're so brave," she cried admiringly.

  He had never been told this before. He suspected it was not true, but to hear her say it was manna to his hungry soul.

  The policeman helped him into a taxicab after first aid had been given and Johnnie's diagnosis verified. On the way home the cowpuncher made love. He discovered that this can be done quite well with one arm, both parties being willing.

  The cab stopped at the house of a doctor and the shoulder was dressed. The doctor made one pardonable mistake.

  "Get your wife to give you this sleeping powder if you find you can't sleep," he said.

  "Y'betcha," answered Johnnie cheerfully.

  Kitty looked at him reproachfully and blushed. She scolded him about it after they reached the apartment where they lived.

  Her new fiancé defended himself. "He's only a day or two prema-chure, honey. It wasn't hardly worth while explainin'," he claimed.

  "A day or two. Oh, Johnnie!"

  "Sure. I ain't gonna wait. Wha's the matter with to-morrow?"

  "I haven't any clothes made," she evaded, and added by way of diversion, "I always liked that kinda golden down on your cheeks."

  "The stores are full of 'em. An' we ain't talkin' about my whiskers--not right now."

  "You're a nice old thing," she whispered, flashing into unexpected dimples, and she rewarded him for his niceness in a way he thought altogether desirable.

  A crisp, strong step sounded outside. The door opened and Clay came into the room.

  He looked at Kitty. "Thank Heaven, you're safe," he said.

  "Johnnie rescued me," she cried. "He got shot--in the shoulder."

  The men looked at each other.

  "Bad, Johnnie?"

  "Nope. A plumb li'l' scratch. Wha's the matter with you?"

  A gleam of humor flitted into the eyes of the cattleman. "I ran into a door."

  "Say, Clay," Johnnie burst out, "I'll betcha can't guess."

  His friend laughed in amiable derision, "Oh, you kids in the woods. I knew it soon as I opened the door."

  He walked up to the girl and took her hand. "You got a good man, Kitty. I'm wishin' you all the joy in the world."

  Her eyes flashed softly. "Don't I know I've got a good man, and I'm going to be happier than I deserve."

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CLAY LAYS DOWN THE LAW

  Tim Muldoon, in his shirt-sleeves, was busy over a late breakfast when his mother opened the door of the flat to let in Clay Lindsay.

  The policeman took one look at the damaged face and forgot the plate of ham and eggs that had just been put before him.

  "Yuh've been at it again!" he cried, his Irish eyes lighting up with anticipatory enjoyment.

  "I had a little set-to with friend Jerry last night," the Westerner explained.

  "Another?"

  "Now don't you blame me. I'm a peaceful citizen--not lookin' for trouble a li'l' bit. But I don't aim to let this Durand comb my hair with a rake."

  "What's the trouble now?"

  "You heard about the girl abducted in an auto from the Bronx?"

  "Uh-huh! Was Jerry in that?"

  "He was. I'll tell you the whole story, Tim."

  "Meet my mother first. Mother--Mr. Lindsay. Yuh've heard me talk av
him."

  Mrs. Muldoon's blue Irish eyes twinkled. She was a plump and ample woman, and her handshake was firm and strong.

  "I have that. Tim thinks yuh a wonder, Mr. Lindsay."

  "Oh, he's prejudiced. You see he doesn't like the Big Mogul Jerry."

  "Well, he's sure a booster for yuh."

  Clay told the story of his encounter with Durand on the train and of his subsequent meetings with him at the Sea Siren and on the night of the poker party. He made elisions and emendations that removed the bedroom scene from the tale.

  "So that's when yuh met Annie Millikan," Tim said. "I was wonderin' how yuh knew her."

  "That's when I met her. She's one fine girl, Tim, a sure-enough thoroughbred. She has fought against heavy odds all her life to keep good and honest. And she's done it."

  "She has that," agreed Mrs. Muldoon heartily. "Annie is a good girrl. I always liked her."

  "I'd bet my last chip on Annie. So last night I went straight to her. She wouldn't throw down 'Slim' Jim, but she gave me an address. I went there and met Durand."

  "With his gang?" asked Tim.

  "No; I waited till they had gone. I locked myself in a room alone with him. He took eight shots at me in the dark and then we mixed."

  "Mother o' Moses!" exclaimed the policeman. "In the dark?"

  "No. I had switched the lights on."

  "You bate him! I can see it in your eye!" cried Muldoon, pounding the table so that the dishes jumped.

  "You'll have to ask him about that." Clay passed to more important facts. "When I reached home Kitty was there. They had dropped her in the Park to make a safe getaway."

  "That's good."

  "But Tim--when Annie Millikan gave me the address where Jerry Durand was, the driver of my taxi saw her. The man was 'Slim' Jim."

  Muldoon sat up, a serious look on his face. "Man, yuh spilt the beans that time. How'd you ever come to do it? They'll take it out on Annie, the dogs." The eyes of the policeman blazed.

  "Unless we stand by her."

  "Sure, and we'll do that. But how?"

  "First we've got to get her away from there to some decent place where she'll be safe."

  Mrs. Muldoon spoke up. "And that's easy. She'll just take our spare bedroom and welcome."

  Tim put an arm caressingly over his mother's shoulders. "Ain't she the best little sport ever, Mr. Lindsay?" he said proudly.

  Clay smiled. "She sure enough grades 'way up."

  "It's blarney yuh're both talkin'," snorted Mrs. Muldoon. "Sure the girrl needs a mother and a home. An' I don't doubt she'll pay her way."

  "Then that's settled. Will you see Annie, Tim? Or shall I?"

  "We'll both see her. But there's another thing. Will she be safe here?"

  "I'm goin' to have a talk with 'Slim' Jim and try to throw a scare into him. I'll report to you what he says."

  They took a trolley to the lodging-house where Annie lived.

  The girl looked pale and tired. Clay guessed she slept little. The memory of "Slim" Jim's snarling had stood out in the darkness at the foot of her bed.

  "Is this a pinch?" she asked Tim with a pert little tilt to her chin.

  "Yuh can call it that, Annie. Mother wants yuh to come and stay with us."

  "And what would I do that for, Mr. Tim Muldoon?" she asked promptly, the color flushing her cheeks.

  "Because you're not safe here. That gang will make yuh pay somehow for what yuh did."

  "And if your mother took me in they'd make her pay. You'd maybe lose your job."

  "I'd find another. I'm thinkin' of quittin' anyhow."

  "Say, whadya think I am? I'll not go. I can look out for myself."

  "I don't think they'd get Tim," put in Clay. "I'm goin' to see Collins and have a talk with him."

  "You can't salve Jim with soft soap."

  "Did I mention soft soap?"

  "I heard some one most killed Jerry Durand last night," said Annie abruptly, staring at Lindsay's bruised face. "Was it you?"

  "Yes," said the Arizonan simply.

  "Did you get the girl?"

  "They dropped her to save themselves. My friend found her with a man and took her from him."

  "I hope you did up Jerry right!" cried Annie, a vindictive flash in her dark eyes.

  "I haven't called him up this mo'nin' to see how he's feelin'," said Clay whimsically. "Miss Annie, we're worried some about you. Mrs. Muldoon is right anxious for us to get you to come and stay awhile with her. She's honin' to have a li'l' girl to mother. Don't you reckon you can go?"

  "I--I wish yuh'd come, Annie," blurted out Tim, looking down his nose.

  Tears brimmed in Annie's eyes. To Clay it seemed there was something hungry in the look the girl gave Muldoon. She did not want his pity alone. She would not have their hospitality if they were giving it to a girl they despised and wanted to reform.

  "I'm an alley cat you're offerin' to take in and feed, Tim Muldoon," she charged suspiciously.

  "Yuh're the girl--my mother loves." He choked on the impulsive avowal he had almost made and finished the sentence awkwardly. It was impossible for him to escape the natural male instinct to keep his feelings out of words.

  The girl's face softened. Inside, she was a river of tenderness flowing toward the Irishman. "I'll go to your mother, Tim, if she really wants me," she cried almost in a murmur.

  "You're shoutin' now, Miss Annie," said Clay, smiling. "She sure wants you. I'll hit the trail to have that talk with Jim Collins."

  He found "Slim" Jim at his stand. That flashily dressed young crook eyed him with a dogged and wary defiance. He had just come from a call at the bedside of Jerry Durand and he felt a healthy respect for the man who could do what this light-stepping young fellow had done to the champion rough-houser of New York. The story Jerry had told was of an assault from behind with a club, but this Collins did not accept at par. There were too many bruises on his sides and cuts on his face to be accounted for in any way except by a hard toe-to-toe fight.

  "Mo'nin', Mr. Collins. I left you in a hurry last night and forgot to pay my bill. What's the damage?" asked Clay in his gently ironic drawl.

  "Slim" Jim growled something the meaning of which was drowned in an oath.

  "You say it was a free ride? Much obliged. That's sure fair enough," Clay went on easily. "Well, I didn't come to talk to you about that. I've got other business with you this mo'nin'."

  The chauffeur looked at him sullenly and silently.

  "Suppose we get inside the cab where we can talk comfortably," Clay proposed.

  "Say, I'll stay right where I'm at," announced "Slim" Jim.

  The cattleman opened the cab door. "Oh, no, we'll go inside," he said softly.

  The men looked at each other and battled. The eye is a more potent weapon than the rapier. The shallow, shifty ones of the gunman fell before the deep, steady ones of the Arizonan. "Slim" Jim, with a touch of swagger to save his face, stepped into the cab and sat down. Clay followed him, closing the door.

  "Have you seen Jerry Durand this sunny mo'nin'?" asked Lindsay with surface amiability.

  "Wot's it to you?" demanded Collins.

  "Not a thing. Nothin' a-tall," agreed Clay. "But it may be somethin' to you. I'm kinda wonderin' whether I'll have to do to you what I did to him."

  "Slim" Jim was not a man of his hands. He could use a gun on occasion, if the advantage was all in his favor, but he strictly declined personal encounters at closer quarters. Now he reached for the door hastily.

  A strong, sinewy hand fell on his arm and tightened, slightly twisting the flesh as the fingers sank deeper.

  Collins let out a yell. "Gawd! Don't do that. You're killin' me."

  "Beg yore pardon. An accident. If I get annoyed I'm liable to hurt without meanin' to," apologized Clay suavely. "I'll come right down to brass tacks, Mr. Collins. You're through with Annie Millikan. Understand?"

  "Say, wot t'ell's this stuff you're pipin'? Who d' you t'ink youse are?"

  "Never mind who I
am. You'll keep away from Annie from now on--absolutely. If you bother her--if anything happens to her--well, you go and take a good long look at Durand before you make any mistakes."