Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  Bull saw the stranger raise his six-gun to take deliberate aim. He was too far away to reach him before he pulled the trigger and it would do no good to warn the Wildcat. There was but a single alternative to standing supinely by and watching old Wildcat being shot down in cold blood by a cowardly murderer.

  It was this alternative that Bull adopted. As the smoke rose from the muzzle of his gun the stranger threw his hands above his head, his weapon clattered to the floor, and he wheeled about. His eyes alighted upon Bull standing there, grim-faced and silent, the smoking six-gun in his hand.

  Suddenly the wounded man gave voice to a shrill scream. “He done it!” he cried, pointing at Bull. “He done it! The Black Coyote done it! He’s killed me!” and with these last words the body slumped to the floor.

  Bull stood facing them all in silence for just a moment. The whole roomful of men and women was staring at him. Then he slipped his gun into its holster and advanced into the room, a faint smile on his lips. He walked toward Wildcat Bob.

  “That hombre was after you, Bob,” he said. “He was drunk, but I couldn’t stop him no other way. He’s the feller you chased through the window that time.”

  Gum Smith hurried to the rear of the bar. Then he leaned over it and pointed a finger at Bull. “Yo-all’s undah arrest!” he cried. “Yo-all’s undah arrest fo murder.”

  “Go kick yourself through a knot-hole!” advised Bull. “Ef I hadn’t got that hombre he’d a-got Bob. They wasn’t nothin’ else to do.”

  “Yo-all hearn what he called him, didn’t yo?” yelled Gum. He pointed at first one and then another. “Ah depatize yo! Ah depatize yo!” he cried. “Arrest him, men!”

  No one moved, except Wildcat Bob. He came and stood beside Bull, and he drew both his long, heavy guns with their heavily notched grips.

  “Anyone what’s aimin’ to take this boy, why, let him step up,” said Wildcat Bob, and his watery blue eye was fixed terribly upon the sheriff.

  “Ah want yo-all to know thet when Ah depatizes yo, yo-all’s depatized,” shrilled Gum. “Yo hearn what the corpse called him. Ain’t that enough? Do yo duty, men!”

  One or two of the men, friends of Gum’s, moved restlessly. Bull, sensing trouble, had drawn both his weapons, and now he stood beside the Wildcat, his steady gray eyes alert for the first hostile move.

  “Don’t none o’ you gents go fer to start nothin’,” he advised. “You all seen what happened. You know I couldn’t a-done nothin’ else, an’ as fer what thet drunken bum called me ef Gum thinks I’m The Coyote why don’t he step up an’ take me? I ain’t a honin’ fer trouble, but I don’t aim to be the subject o’ no postmortem neither.”

  “Do yo-all surrendah, then?” demanded Gum.

  “Don’t try to be no more of a damn fool than the Lord made yuh, Gum,” advised Wildcat Bob. “You know thet if this here boy ain’t The Black Coyote you don’t want him, an’ ef he is The Black Coyote you wouldn’t never git outen behind thet bar ef you was to try to take him. Fer my part I don’t believe he is, an’ I got two of pea-shooters here what thinks the same as I does. What do you think, Gum?”

  “Well,” said the sheriff after a moment’s deliberation, “Ah reckon as mebby the corpse was mistook. Hev a drink on the house, gents!”

  As Bull and Wildcat Bob entered the office of The Donovan House Mary Donovan espied them through the open doorway of her sitting room and called to them.

  “Come in an’ have a drop o’ tay wid me before yese go to bed,” she invited, and as they entered she scrutinized Wildcat Bob with a stern eye. Evidently satisfied, her face softened. “I know they ain’t run out o’ whiskey in Hendersville,” she said, “so I reckon ye must o’ run out o’ money, Wildcat.”

  The little old gentleman reached into his pocket and drew forth a handful of silver, which he displayed with virtuous satisfaction.

  “The saints be praised!” exclaimed Mary Donovan. “Ye’ve money in yer pocket an’ yer home airly an’ sober! Be ye sick, Wildcat Bob?”

  “I’ve reformed, Mary — I ain’t never goin’ to tech another drop,” he assured her, solemnly.

  “Ye’ve not had a drink the avenin’?” she demanded.

  “Well—” he hesitated, “you see”

  “Yis, I see,” she snapped, scornfully.

  “But, Mary, I only had one little one — you wouldn’t begrudge an old man one little nightcap?”

  “Well,” she consented, relenting, “wan little one wouldn’t do no harrm. I wouldn’t moind one mesilf.”

  Wildcat Bob reached for his hip pocket. “I was thinking that same thing, Mary, and that’s why I brung one home fer yuh,” and he drew forth a pint flask.

  “The divil fly away wid ye, Wildcat Bob!” she cried, but she was smiling as she reached for the flask.

  Bull rose, laughing. “Good night!” he said, “I’m going to turn in.”

  “Have a drop wid us before ye go,” invited Mary.

  “No thanks, I’ve quit,” replied Bull. A moment later they heard him mounting the stairs to his room.

  “He’s a good b’y,” said Mary, wiping her lips and replacing the cork in the bottle.

  “He is that, Mary,” agreed Wildcat, reaching for it.

  There was a period of contented silence.

  “It’s a lonesome life fer a widdy-lady, that it is,” remarked Mary, with a deep sigh.

  Wildcat Bob moved his chair closer, flushed at his own boldness, and fell to examining the toe of his boot. Mary rocked diligently, her red hands folded in her ample lap, keeping an eye cocked on the Wildcat. There was another long silence that was broken at last by Mrs. Donovan.

  “Sure,” she said, ,’an’ it’s funny ye never married, Bob.”

  Bob essayed reply, but a mouthful of tobacco juice prevented. Rising, he walked into the office, crossed that room, opened the front door and spat copiously without. Returning to the room he hitched his chair closer to Mary’s, apparently by accident, as he resumed his seat.

  “I—” he started, but it was evidently a false start, since he commenced all over again. “I=“ again he paused.

  “You what?” inquired Mary Donovan with soft encouragement.

  “You—” said Wildcat Bob and stuck again. Inward excitement evidently stimulated his salivary glands, with the result that he was again forced to cross to the outer door. When he returned he hunched his chair a bit closer to Mary’s.

  “As ye was about to remark,” prodded Mary.

  “I — I—”

  “Yes,” said Mary, “Go on, Bob!”

  “I was just a-goin’ to say that I don’t think it’ll rain tonight,” he ended, lamely.

  Mary Donovan placed her hands upon her hips, pressed her lips together and turned a withering glance of scorn upon Wildcat Bob — all of which were lost upon him, he having again returned to whole-souled consideration of the toe of his boot, his face suffused with purple.

  “Rain!” muttered Mary Donovan. “Rain in Arizony this time o’ year? Sure, an’ ye mane ye thought it wouldn’t shnow, didn’t ye?” she demanded.

  Wildcat Bob emitted only a gurgle, and again silence reigned, unbroken for long minutes, except by the creaking of Mary’s rocker. Suddenly she turned upon him.

  “Gimme that flask,” she said.

  He handed it over and she took a long drink. Wiping the mouth of the bottle with the palm of her hand she returned it to him. Then Wildcat Bob took a drink, and the silence continued.

  The evening wore on, the flask emptied and midnight came. With it came Gum Smith, reeling bedward. They watched him stagger across the office floor and heard him stumbling up the stairs. Mary Donovan arose.

  “Be off to bed wid ye,” she said. “I can’t be sittin’ here all night gossipin’ wid ye.”

  He too, arose. “Good night, Mary,” he said, “it’s been a pleasant evenin’.”

  “Yis,” said Mary Donovan. ,

  As Wildcat Bob climbed the stairs toward his room he was mumbling in his beard. “Doggone
my hide!” he said. “Ef I’d jest had a coupla drinks I mout a-done it.”

  “Sure,” soliloquized Mary Donovan, as she closed the door of her bedroom, “it’s not so durn funny after all that the ould fool nivir was married.”

  11. “RIDE HIM, COWBOY!”

  Lillian Manill awoke early and viewed the brilliant light of the new day through the patio windows of her room — the outer windows were securely shuttered against Indians. She stretched languorously and turned over for another nap, but suddenly changed her mind, threw off the covers and arose. It was a hideously early hour for Lillian Manill to arise; but she had recalled that there was to be a riding lesson after breakfast and Diana had explained to her that the breakfast hour was an early one. Dressing, she selected a tailored walking suit — she would change into her riding habit after breakfast — for she wanted to stroll about the yard a bit before breakfast, and she knew that this new walking suit was extremely fetching.

  A few minutes later as she stepped into the yard she saw signs of activity in the direction of the horse corrals and thither she bent her steps. Texas Pete, who was helping the chore boy with the morning feeding, saw her coming and looked for an avenue of escape, being in no sense a lady’s man and fully aware of the fact; but he was too late — there was no avenue left, Lillian Manill being already between him and the bunk- house. So he applied himself vigorously to the pitchfork he was wielding and pretended not to see her, a pretense that made no impression whatever upon Lillian Manill. She paused outside the bars and looked in.

  “Good morning!” she said.

  Texas Pete pretended that he had not heard.

  “Mornin’,” replied Pete, pulling at the brim of his hat and immediately resuming the fork. He wished she would move on. The horses were fed and there was no other excuse for him to remain in the corral, but in order to reach the bunkhouse he must pass directly by this disconcerting person. Diana he did not mind — he was used to Diana, and aside from the fact that he was madly in love with her she caused him little embarrassment or concern except upon those few occasions when he had attempted to maintain an extended conversation with her. Dr. Johnson would have found nothing in Pete’s conversational attainments to have aroused his envy.

  Pete continued feeding the horses. He fed them twice as much as they could eat in a day, notwithstanding the fact that he knew perfectly well they were to be fed again that evening; but finally he realized that he could defer the embarrassing moment no longer and that the girl had not left. He stuck the fork viciously into the haystack and crossed the corral. He tried to appear unconcerned and to pass her by without looking at her, but in both he failed — first because he was very much concerned and second because she placed herself directly in his path and smiled sweetly at him.

  “I don’t believe I had the pleasure of meeting you last night,” she said. “I am Miss Manill — Miss Renders’ cousin.”

  “Yes’m,” said Pete.

  “And I suppose you are one of the cow-gentlemen,” she added.

  Pete turned suddenly and violently purple. A choking sound issued from his throat; but quickly he gained control of himself. Something in that remark of hers removed instantly all of Texas Pete’s embarrassment. He found himself at once upon an even footing with her.

  “No’m,” he said, “I hain’t one o’ the cow-gentlemen — I’m on’y a tendershoe.”

  “I’m sure you don’t look it,” she told him, “with those leather trousers with the fleece on. But you ride, don’t you?” she added quickly.

  “I ain’t lamed yit,” he assured her.

  “Oh, isn’t that too bad! I thought of course you were a wonderful equestrian and I was going to ask you to teach me to ride; but you’d better come along after breakfast and we’ll get Mr. Colby to teach us both.”

  “I reckon he wouldn’t like it,” explained Pete. “You see I’m in his afternoon ridin’ class. He don’t take nothin’ but ladies in the mornin’.”

  “Oh, does he teach riding regularly?”

  “My, yes, that’s what he’s here fer. He’s larnin’ us all to ride so’s we kin go out on hosses an’ catch the cows ‘stid o’ havin’ to hoof it.”

  “I thought he was foreman,” she said.

  “Yes’m, but that’s one of his jobs — larnin’ cowgentlemen to ride”

  “How interesting! I’ve learned so much already and I’ve only been in Arizona since day before yesterday. Mr. Bull was so kind and patient, answering all my silly little questions.”

  “I reckon Bull could answer most any question,” he told her.

  “Yes, indeed; but then he’s been here in Arizona so long, and had so much to do with the development of the country. Why, do you know he planted all the willows along that funny little river we followed for so long yesterday - miles and miles of them?”

  “Did he tell you that?” inquired Texas Pete.

  “Yes, isn’t it wonderful? I think it shows such an artistic temperament.”

  “There’s more to Bull than I ever suspected,” murmured Texas Pete, reverently.

  A sudden, clamorous, metallic din shattered the quiet of the cool Arizona morning. The girl gave a little scream and sprang for Texas Pete, throwing both arms about his neck.

  “O-o-h!” she cried; “what is it — Indians?”

  “No’m,” said Pete, striving to disengage himself, for he saw the malevolent eyes of several unholy cow-gentlemen gloating upon the scene from the doorway of the bunk-house. “No’m, that ain’t Injuns — that’s the breakfast bell.”

  “How silly of me!” she explained. “Now I suppose I must be going. I’m so glad to have met you, Mr,

  “My name’s ‘Texas Pete.”

  “Mr. Pete, and I do hope you learn to ride quickly. I am sure we could have some lovely excursions, picnicking among the beautiful hills. Oh, wouldn’t it be divine just you and I, Mr. Pete?” and she let her great, lovely eyes hang for a moment on his in a fashion that had turned more sophisticated heads than Texas Pete’s.

  When she had gone and Pete was making his way toward the cook-house he ran his fingers through his shock of hair. “By gollies!” he muttered. “The outside o’ her head’s all right, anyway.”

  As he entered the cook-house Shorty seized him and threw both arms about his neck. “Kiss me darlin’ !” he cried. “I ain’t had a single kiss before breakfast.”

  “Shet up, you long-legged walrus,” replied Pete, grinning, as he shoved the other aside.

  He ate in silence despite the gibes of his companions, who quickly desisted, realizing the futility of attempting to arouse Texas Pete’s ire by raillery. He was quick enough of temper and quicker still with his guns when occasion warranted; but no one could arouse his anger so long as their thrusts were shod with fun.

  “Lookee here, cook,” he called promptly to that individual; “you’re the best eddicated bloke in this bunch o’ long-horns — what’s a questreen?”

  “Somethin’ you puts soup in,” replied the cook.

  Texas Pete scratched his head. “I thought all along that I didn’t like her,” he muttered, “an’ now I knows it.”

  Diana Henders greeted her guests with a cheery smile and a word of welcome as they entered the dining room for breakfast. “I hope you slept well,” she said.

  “Oh, I did,” exclaimed Lillian Manill. “I never knew a thing from the time my head touched the pillow until broad daylight this morning. I had a perfectly wonderful night.”

  “I didn’t,” said Corson, and Diana noticed then that he looked tired and haggard. “What happened last night?” he asked.

  “Why, nothing, that I know of,” replied Diana. “Why do you ask?”

  “Have you seen any of your men this morning — or any of the neighbors?” he continued.

  “I have seen a couple of the men to talk with — we have no neighbors.”

  “How many women are there on this place?” he went on.

  “Just Lillian and I.”

  “Well, some
thing terrible happened last night,” said Corson. “I never spent such a hideous night in my life. It’s funny you didn’t hear it.”

  “Hear what?” asked Diana.

  “That woman — my God! I can hear her screams yet.

  “Oh, Maurice! what do you mean?” cried Miss Manill.

  “It was about midnight,” he explained. “I had been rather restless just dozing a little — when all of a sudden the dogs commenced to bark and then a woman screamed — it was the most awful, long-drawn, agonized wail I ever heard — some one must have been torturing her. I’ll bet the Indians were out last night and the first thing you know you’ll hear about a terrible massacre. Well, it stopped all of a sudden and pretty soon the dogs commenced to yap again — there must have been fifty of ’em — and then that woman shrieked again — I’ll hear that to my dying day. I don’t think you ought to let any of the men go away today until you find out just what happened last night. The Indians may just be waiting for ’em to go and then they’ll rush down on us and kill us all.”

  A faint smile had slowly curved Diana’s lips and brought little wrinkles to the corners of her eyes.

  “What are you smiling about, Miss Henders?” demanded Corson. “If you’d heard that woman you wouldn’t feel like smiling — not for a long time.”

  “That wasn’t a woman you heard, Mr. Corson — they were coyotes.”

  He looked at her blankly. “Are you sure?” he asked, presently.

  ‘ ‘Of course I’m sure,” she told him.

  Corson breathed a sigh of relief. “I’d like to believe it,” he said. “I’d sleep better tonight.”

  “Well, you can believe it, for that is what you heard.”

  “I’d hate to be caught out after dark by ‘em,” he said. “A pack of fifty or a hundred such as there was last night would tear a fellow to pieces in no time.”

  “They are perfectly harmless,” Diana assured him, “and the chances are that there were no more than two or three of them — possibly only one.”

  “I guess I heard ‘em,” he insisted.

  “They have a way of sounding like a whole lot more than they really are.”