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

by Unknown

  Cunningham was past fifty-five and his hair was streaked with gray. But he stood straight as an Indian, six feet in his socks. The sap of strength still rang strong in him. In the days when he had ridden the range he had been famous for his stamina and he was even yet a formidable two-fisted fighter.

  But Hull was beyond prudence. "I'll go when I get ready, an' I'll come back when I get ready," he boasted.

  There came a soft thud of a hard fist on fat flesh, the crash of a heavy bulk against the door. After that things moved fast. Hull's body reacted to the pain of smashing blows falling swift and sure. Before he knew what had taken place he was on the landing outside on his way to the stairs. He hit the treads hard and rolled on down.

  A man coming upstairs helped him to his feet.

  "What's up?" the man asked.

  Hull glared at him, for the moment speechless. His eyes were venomous, his mouth a thin, cruel slit. He pushed the newcomer aside, opened the door of the apartment opposite, went in, and slammed it after him.

  The man who had assisted him to rise was dark and immaculately dressed.

  "I judge Uncle James has been exercising," he murmured before he took the next flight of stairs.

  On the door of apartment 12 was a legend in Old English engraved on a calling card. It said:

  James Cunningham

  The visitor pushed the electric bell. Cunningham opened to him.

  "Good-evening, Uncle," the younger man said. "Your elevator is not running, so I walked up. On the way I met a man going down. He seemed rather in a hurry."

  "A cheap blackmailer trying to bold me up. I threw him out."

  "Thought he looked put out," answered the younger man, smiling politely. "I see you still believe in applying direct energy to difficulties."

  "I do. That's why I sent for you." The promoter's cold eyes were inscrutable. "Come in and shut the door."

  The young man sauntered in. He glanced at his uncle curiously from his sparkling black eyes. What the devil did James, Senior, mean by what he had said? Was there any particular significance in it?

  He stroked his small black mustache. "Glad to oblige you any way I can, sir."

  "Sit down."

  The young Beau Brummel hung up his hat and cane, sank into the easiest chair in the room, and selected a cigarette from a gold-initialed case.

  "At your service, sir," he said languidly.

  CHAPTER II

  WILD ROSE TAKES THE DUST

  "Wild Rose on Wild Fire," shouted the announcer through a megaphone trained on the grand stand.

  Kirby Lane, who was leaning against the fence chatting with a friend, turned round and took notice. Most people did when Wild Rose held the center of the stage.

  Through the gateway of the enclosure came a girl hardly out of her teens. She was bareheaded, a cowboy hat in her hand. The sun, already slanting from the west, kissed her crisp, ruddy gold hair and set it sparkling. Her skin was shell pink, amber clear. She walked as might a young Greek goddess in the dawn of the world, with the free movement of one who loves the open sky and the wind-swept plain.

  A storm of hand-clapping swept the grand stand. Wild Rose acknowledged it with a happy little laugh. These dear people loved her. She knew it. And not only because she was a champion. They made over her because of her slimness, her beauty, the aura of daintiness that surrounded her, the little touches of shy youth that still clung to her manner. Other riders of her sex might be rough, hoydenish, or masculine. Wild Rose had the charm of her name. Yet the muscles that rippled beneath her velvet skin were hard as nails. No bronco alive could unseat her without the fight of its life.

  Meanwhile the outlaw horse Wild Fire was claiming its share of attention. The bronco was a noted bucker. Every year it made the circuit of the rodeos and only twice had a rider stuck to the saddle without pulling leather. Now it had been roped and cornered. Half a dozen wranglers in chaps were trying to get it ready for the saddle. From the red-hot eyes of the brute a devil of fury glared at the men trying to thrust a gunny sack over its head. The four legs were wide apart, the ears cocked, teeth bared. The animal flung itself skyward and came down on the boot of a puncher savagely. The man gave an involuntary howl of pain, but he clung to the rope snubbed round the wicked head.

  The gunny sack was pushed and pulled over the eyes. Wild Fire subsided, trembling, while bridle was adjusted and saddle slipped on. The girl attended to the cinching herself. If the saddle turned it might cost her life, and she preferred to take no unnecessary chances.

  She was dressed in green satin riding clothes. A beaded bolero jacket fitted over a white silk blouse. Her boots were of buckskin, silver-spurred. With her hat on, at a distance, one might have taken her for a slim, beautiful boy.

  Wild Rose swung to the saddle and adjusted her feet in the stirrups. The gunny sack was whipped from the horse's head. There was a wild scuffle of escaping wranglers.

  For a moment Wild Fire stood quivering. The girl's hat swept through the air in front of its eyes. The horse woke to galvanized action. The back humped. It shot into the air with a writhing twist of the body. All four feet struck the ground together, straight and stiff as fence posts.

  The girl's head jerked forward as though it were on a hinge. The outlaw went sunfishing, its forefeet almost straight up. She was still in the saddle when it came to all fours again. A series of jarring bucks, each ending with the force of a pile-driver as Wild Fire's hoofs struck earth, varied the programme. The rider came down limp, half in the saddle, half out, righting herself as the horse settled for the next leap. But not once did her hands reach for the pommel of the saddle to steady her.

  Pitching and bucking, the animal humped forward to the fence.

  "Look out!" a judge yelled.

  It was too late. The rider could not deflect her mount. Into the fence went Wild Fire blindly and furiously. The girl threw up her leg to keep it from being jammed. Up went the bronco again before Wild Rose could find the stirrup. She knew she was gone, felt herself shooting forward. She struck the ground close to the horse's hoofs. Wild Fire lunged at her. A bolt of pain like a red-hot iron seared through her.

  Through the air a rope whined. It settled over the head of the outlaw and instantly was jerked tight. Wild Fire, coming down hard for a second lunge at the green crumpled heap underfoot, was dragged sharply sideways. Another lariat snaked forward and fell true.

  "Here, Cole!" The first roper thrust the taut line into the hands of a puncher who had run forward. He himself dived for the still girl beneath the hoofs of the rearing horse. Catching her by the arms, he dragged her out of danger. She was unconscious.

  The cowboy picked her up and carried her to the waiting ambulance. The closed eyes flickered open. A puzzled little frown rested in them.

  "What's up, Kirby?" asked Wild Rose.

  "You had a spill."

  "Took the dust, did I?" He sensed the disappointment in her voice.

  "You rode fine. He jammed you into the fence," explained the young man.

  The doctor examined her. The right arm hung limp.

  "Broken, I'm afraid," he said.

  "Ever see such luck?" the girl complained to Lane.

  "Probably they won't let me ride in the wild-horse race now."

  "No chance, young lady," the doctor said promptly. "I'm going to take you right to the hospital."

  "I might get back in time," she said hopefully.

  "You might, but you won't."

  "Oh, well," she sighed. "If you're going to act like that."

  The cowboy helped her into the ambulance and found himself a seat.

  "Where do you think you're going?" she asked with a smile a bit twisted by pain.

  "I reckon I'll go far as the hospital with you."

  "I reckon you won't. What do you think I am--a nice little parlor girl who has to be petted when she gets hurt? You're on to ride inside of fifteen minutes--and you know it."

  "Oh, well! I'm lookin' for an alibi so as not to be beaten. That
Cole Sanborn is sure a straight-up rider."

  "So's that Kirby Lane. You needn't think I'm going to let you beat yourself out of the championship. Not so any one could notice it. Hop out, sir."

  He rose, smiling ruefully. "You certainly are one bossy kid."

  "I'd say you need bossing when you start to act so foolish," she retorted, flushing.

  "See you later," he called to her by way of good-bye.

  As the ambulance drove away she waved cheerfully at him a gauntleted hand.

  The cowpuncher turned back to the arena. The megaphone man was announcing that the contest for the world's rough-riding championship would now be resumed.

  CHAPTER III

  FOR THE CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD

  The less expert riders had been weeded out in the past two days. Only the champions of their respective sections were still in the running. One after another these lean, brown men, chap-clad and bow-legged, came forward dragging their saddles and clamped themselves to the backs of hurricane outlaws which pitched, bucked, crashed into fences, and toppled over backward in their frenzied efforts to dislodge the human clothes-pins fastened to them.

  The bronco busters endured the usual luck of the day. Two were thrown and picked themselves out of the dust, chagrined and damaged, but still grinning. One drew a tame horse not to be driven into resistance either by fanning or scratching. Most of the riders emerged from the ordeal victorious. Meanwhile the spectators in the big grand stand, packed close as small apples in a box, watched every rider and snatched at its thrills just as such crowds have done from the time of Caligula.

  Kirby Lane, from his seat on the fence among a group of cowpunchers, watched each rider no less closely. It chanced that he came last on the programme for the day. When Cole Sanborn was in the saddle he made an audible comment.

  "I'm lookin' at the next champion of the world," he announced.

  "Not onless you've got a lookin'-glass with you, old alkali," a small berry-brown youth in yellow-wool chaps retorted.

  Sanborn was astride a noted outlaw known as Jazz. The horse was a sorrel, and it knew all the tricks of its kind. It went sunfishing, tried weaving and fence-rowing, at last toppled over backward after a frantic leap upward. The rider, long-bodied and lithe, rode like a centaur. Except for the moment when he stepped out of the saddle as the outlaw fell on its back, he stuck to his seat as though he were glued to it.

  "He's a right limber young fellow, an' he sure can ride. I'll say that," admitted one old cattleman.

  "They don't grow no better busters," another man spoke up. He was a neighbor of Sanborn and had his local pride. "From where I come from we'll put our last nickel on Cole, you betcha. He's top hand with a rope too."

  "Hmp! Kirby here can make him look like thirty cents, top of a bronc or with a lariat either one," the yellow-chapped vaquero flung out bluntly.

  Lane looked at his champion, a trifle annoyed. "What's the use o' talkin' foolishness, Kent? I never saw the day I had anything on Cole."

  "Beat him at Pendleton, didn't you?"

  "Luck. I drew the best horses." To Sanborn, who had finished his job and was straddling wide-legged toward the group, Kirby threw up a hand of greeting. "Good work, old-timer. You're sure hellamile on a bronc."

  "Kirby Lane on Wild Fire," shouted the announcer.

  Lane slid from the fence and reached for his saddle. As he lounged forward, moving with indolent grace, one might have guessed him a Southerner. He was lean-loined and broad-shouldered. The long, flowing muscles rippled under his skin when he moved like those of a panther. From beneath the band of his pinched-in hat crisp, reddish hair escaped.

  Wild Fire was off the instant his feet found the stirrups. Again the outlaw went through its bag of tricks and its straight bucking. The man in the saddle gave to its every motion lightly and easily. He rode with such grace that he seemed almost a part of the horse. His reactions appeared to anticipate the impulses of the screaming fiend which he was astride. When Wild Fire jolted him with humpbacked jarring bucks his spine took the shock limply to neutralize the effect. When it leaped heavenward he waved his hat joyously and rode the stirrups. From first to last he was master of the situation, and the outlaw, though still fighting savagely, knew the battle was lost.

  The bronco had one trump card left, a trick that had unseated many a stubborn rider. It plunged sideways at the fence of the enclosure and crashed through it. Kirby's nerves shrieked with pain, and for a moment everything went black before him. His leg had been jammed hard against the upper plank. But when the haze cleared he was still in the saddle.

  The outlaw gave up. It trotted tamely back to the grand stand through the shredded fragments of pine in the splintered fence, and the grand stand rose to its feet with a shout of applause for the rider.

  Kirby slipped from the saddle and limped back to his fellows on the fence. Already the crowd was pouring out from every exit of the stand. A thousand cars of fifty different makes were snorting impatiently to get out of the jam as soon as possible. For Cheyenne was full, full to overflowing. The town roared with a high tide of jocund life. From all over Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, and New Mexico hard-bitten, sunburned youths in high-heeled boots and gaudy attire had gathered for the Frontier Day celebration. Hundreds of cars had poured up from Denver. Trains had disgorged thousands of tourists come to see the festival. Many people would sleep out in automobiles and on the prairie. The late comers at restaurants and hotels would wait long and take second best.

  A big cattleman beckoned to Lane. "Place in my car, son. Run you back to town."

  One of the judges sat in the tonneau beside the rough rider.

  "How's the leg? Hurt much?"

  "Not much. I'm noticin' it some," Kirby answered with a smile.

  "You'll have to ride to-morrow. It's you and Sanborn for the finals. We haven't quite made up our minds."

  The cattleman was an expert driver. He wound in and out among the other cars speeding over the prairie, struck the road before the great majority of the automobiles had reached there, and was in town with the vanguard.

  After dinner the rough rider asked the clerk at her hotel if there was any mail for Miss Rose McLean. Three letters were handed him. He put them in his pocket and set out for the hospital.

  He found Miss Rose reclining in a hospital chair, in a frame of mind highly indignant. "That doctor talks as though he's going to keep me here a week. Well, he's got another guess coming. I'll not stay," she exploded to her visitor.

  "Now, looky here, you better do as the doc says. He knows best. What's a week in your young life?" Kirby suggested.

  "A week's a week, and I don't intend to stay. Why did you limp when you came in? Get hurt?"

  "Not really hurt. Jammed my leg against a fence. I drew Wild Fire."

  "Did you win the championship?" the girl asked eagerly.

  "No. Finals to-morrow. Sanborn an' me. How's the arm? Bone broken?"

  "Yes. Oh, it aches some. Be all right soon."

  He drew her letters from his pocket. "Stopped to get your mail at the hotel. Thought you'd like to see it."

  Wild Rose looked the envelopes over and tore one open.

  "From my little sister Esther," she explained. "Mind if I read it? I'm some worried about her. She's been writing kinda funny lately."

  As she read, the color ebbed from her face. When she had finished reading the letter Kirby spoke gently.

  "Bad news, pardner?"

  She nodded, choking. Her eyes, frank and direct, met those of her friend without evasion. It was a heritage of her life in the open that in her relations with men she showed a boylike unconcern of sex.

  "Esther's in trouble. She--she--" Rose caught her breath in a stress of emotion.

  "If there's anything I can do--"

  The girl flung aside the rug that covered her and rose from the chair. She began to pace up and down the room. Presently her thoughts overflowed in words.

  "She doesn't say what it is, but--I know her. She
's crazy with fear--or heartache--or something." Wild Rose was always quick-tempered, a passionate defender of children and all weak creatures. Now Lane knew that the hot blood was rushing stormily to her heart. Her little sister was in danger, the only near relative she had. She would fight for her as a cougar would for its young. "By God, if it's a man--if he's done her wrong--I'll shoot him down like a gray wolf. I'll show him how safe it is to--to--"

  She broke down again, clamping tight her small strong teeth to bite back a sob.

  He spoke very gently. "Does she say--?"