As the crowd was dispersing. Wildcat Bob caught sight of Willie among them.
“Hey, thar, you!” he called. “What was you doin’ with thet bunch — I thought you claimed to be a friend o’ Bull’s.”
“Course I am,” maintained Willie, stoutly; “but I hain’t never seed no one hanged.”
A few hours later Diana Henders left on the stage for Aldea and after she had departed Cot son and Lillian Manill rode back to the ranch, taking the Wainrights with them, while Hal Colby trotted along beside them. He had .not seer Diana before she left, nor had he made any effort. to do so.
“We might save a right smart o’ rouble if we could get everything fixed up before she gets back, Corson,” the elder Wainright was saying.
“The government patent to the land as well as Manill’s will are in the New York office,” replied Corson. “I’ve sent for them. They ought to be along now any time. I rather expected them on yesterday’s stage — they certainly must come in on the next and I imagine she won’t get back for a week at least - that will give us three days. Then we’ll all go to Aldea, have the papers drawn up there, you turn the money over to us and Miss Manill and I can get away for New York on the train that night — I’ve had all of this damn country I want.”
Hal Colby, fortunately for his peace of mind, did not overhear the conversation. It outlined an entirely different plan from that which Lillian Manill had explained to him only the preceding day — a plan which included a hasty wedding and a long honeymoon, during which the Bar Y foreman would taste the sweets of world travel in company with a charming and affectionate bride.
“You’re goin’ to leave me here to run all the risk, eh?” demanded Wainright, senior.
“Oh, there’s no risk now that that Bull fellow is out of the way,” Corson assured him.
“I wish I was sure he was out o’ the way,” said Wainright, dubiously. “I don’t like that fellow a little bit.”
“He’ll never show up again,” said Corson, confidently, “and anyway, just as soon as I get to New York I’ll look up a good man to represent me here, and I’m going to pick the toughest one I can find in New York, too.”
“I’m afraid I’m buyin’ a heap o’ trouble with that one- third interest of mine,” said Wainright, scratching his head.
“But look what you’re going to get out of it,” Corson reminded him. “I’ll bet we take a million out of that mine in the next year.”
Back at the ranch Colby was met by a scowling trio-’Texas Pete, Shorty, and Idaho. “Where’s Bull?” demanded Texas.
“How should I know?” replied Colby, gruffly. “When was I elected his nurse-girl?”
“You went out after him with a bunch o’ drunken short-horns last night,” accused Shorty. “You know whether you got him or not.”
“They didn’t git him,” said Colby, shortly.
“It’s a good thing fer you, Colby, thet they didn’t,” said Texas Pete, “an’ another thing — we wants our time. We ain’t a-aimin’ to work under no pole-cat no more.”
“I reckon we kin git along without you,” retorted Colby, ignoring the insult. “You kin come back here in a week fer your checks — the boss ain’t here.”
“Then we’ll stay ‘til she is,” said Pete.
“Suit yerselves,” replied Colby, as he turned and walked away.
The routine of the ranch moved in its accustomed grooves as the days passed, though there was noticeably absent the spirit of good-fellowship that marks the daily life of a well-ordered cow outfit. A little coterie, headed by Texas Pete, herded by itself, in the vernacular of the West, while the remaining punchers grouped themselves about the foreman.
Mealtimes, ordinarily noisy with rough but good-natured badinage, had become silent moments to be gotten through as rapidly as possible. There was a decorous restraint that was far too decorous, among these rough men, to augur aught of good. It revealed rather than veiled the proximity of open hostilities.
There was one topic of conversation that was eschewed particularly. It would have been the steel to the flint of prejudice which lay embedded in the powder of partisanship. Bull’s name was never mentioned when the factions were together.
The stage came again to Hendersville on the third day after Diana’s departure. It brought mail for the ranch, but the vaquero who had been sent from the Bar Y for it tarried longer at Gum’s Place — Liquors and Cigars - than he had intended, with the result that it was well after supper and quite dark before he delivered it to the office.
As he approached the yellow rectangle of the open office door it may have been the light shining in his eyes that prevented him seeing the figure of a man beneath the darkness of the cottonwoods that surround the house, or the horse, standing as silently as its master, fifty feet away — a blazed-face chestnut with two white hind feet.
The vaquero entered the office, where Corson was sitting in conversation with the two Wainrights, and laid the mail upon the table. The New Yorker picked it up and ran through it. There was a bulky letter addressed to him, which he opened.
“Here’s what we’ve been waiting for,” he said, glancing quickly through two enclosures and laying them aside to peruse the accompanying letter.
The man beneath the shadows of the cottonwoods moved closer to the open office doorway, keeping well out of the yellow shaft of the lamp-light.
Bull had not come down to the Bar Y from his hiding place in Coyote Canyon for the purpose of spying upon Corson. He had hoped against hope that Diana might return on the day’s stage, for he wanted a word with her. He knew that she could not have made the trip to Kansas City and return in so short a time, but then she might have changed her mind at Aldea and given up the trip. It was on this chance that he had come down out of the mountains tonight.
Diana had not returned — he had convinced himself of this — but still he tarried. These were her enemies. It could do no harm to keep an eye on them. He did not like the proprietorial airs of Corson, sitting there in “the old man’s” easy chair, and as for the Wainrights, they too seemed much more at home than suited Bull. His hand caressed the butt of a six-gun affectionately.
“Hell!” exclaimed Corson, explosively. “The addle-brained idiot!”
“What’s the matter?” inquired the elder Wainright.
Corson was in the midst of the letter. He shook it violently and angrily in lieu of anything more closely representative of its writer.
“The chump has dug up some papers that we don’t want — we don’t want ’em in Arizona at all. He’s a new man. I thought he had good sense and discretion, but he hasn’t either. He’s sendin’ ’em out here by registered mail.
“If anything happens to them, if they fall into the Henders girl’s hands our goose is cooked. He says they ‘put a new aspect on the situation’ and that ‘he knows I’ll be delighted to have them.’ They surely will put a new aspect on the situation, but I don’t want ’em — not here.
“If I’d had any sense I’d have destroyed them before I left New York; but who’d have thought that they weren’t safe right in my own office. I’d be delighted to have him — by the neck. Lord! suppose they’re lost now! They should have been here with this other mail.”
“If it’s registered stuff it may have been delayed just enough to miss the stage at Aldea by one train,” suggested Wainright. “If that is the case it’ll be along by the next stage.”
“What were the papers?” demanded the elder Wainright, suspiciously.
Corson hesitated. He realized that he had been surprised by his anger into saying too much.
“Perhaps I overestimate their value,” he said. “They might not do any harm after all.”
“What were they?” insisted Mr. Wainright.
“Oh, they were reports that show the tremendous value of the new vein in the mine,” lied Corson, glibly.
Wainright sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief. “Oh, if that’s all they was we don’t need to worry none about them,�
� he said. “We as good as got the place now. We’ll drive over to Aldea tomorrer and fix things up, eh?”
“I think I’ll wait for the next mail,” said Corson. “Those reports might not do any harm, but I’d rather be here when they come and see that no one else gets hold of them.”
“Mebby you’re right,” assented Wainright. He arose, yawning, and stretched. ‘ ‘I calc’late to go to bed,” he said.
“I think I’ll do the same,” said his son. “I hope Miss Manill is feeling better by morning.”
“Oh, she’ll be all right,” said Corson. “Just a little headache. Good night! I’m coming along too.”
They lighted lamps, blew out the one in the office, and departed for their rooms. The man in the shadows turned slowly toward his horse, but he had taken only a few steps when he halted listening.
Someone was approaching. He glanced through the darkness in the direction of the sounds which came out of the night along the pathway from the bunk-house. Stepping quickly behind the bole of a large tree, Bull waited in silence. Presently he saw dimly the figure of a man and as it came nearer the star-light revealed its identity.
It was Colby. Like himself, Colby waited in the shadows of the trees - waited silently, watching the dead black of the office windows. The silence was tangible, it was so absolutely dominant, reigning supreme in a world of darkness. Bull wondered that the other did not hear his breathing. He marvelled at the quietness of Blazes — even the roller in his bit lay silent. But it could not last much longer — the horse was sure to move in a moment and Colby would investigate. The result was a foregone conclusion. There would be shooting.
Bull did not want to shoot Colby — not now. There were two reasons. One however would have been enough — that Diana Henders was thinking of marrying the man.
And then the silence was broken. Very slightly only was it broken. A suspicion of a sound came from the interior of the house, and following it a dim light wavering mysteriously upon the office walls, growing steadily brighter until the room was suddenly illuminated.
From where he now stood Bull could not see the interior of the office, but he knew that someone carrying a lamp had come down the stairway, along the hall and entered the office. Then he saw Colby move forward and step lightly to the veranda and an instant later the office door swung open, revealing Lillian Manill in a diaphanous negligee.
Bull saw Colby seize the girl, strain her to him and cover her lips with kisses. Then the girl drew her lover into the room and closed the door.
With a grimace of disgust Bull walked to Blazes, mounted him and rode slowly away. Now there was only one reason why he could not kill Colby yet.
15. “NOW, GO!”
It was Wednesday again. Four horses, sweat streaked, toiled laboriously to drag the heavy coach up the north side of Hell’s Bend Pass. It was a tough pull even with a light load — one that really demanded six horses and would have had six in the old days — and today the load was light. There was but a single passenger. She sat on the driver’s box with Bill Gatlin with whom she was in earnest discussion.
“I tell you I don’t believe he did it,” she was saying. “I’ll never believe that he did it, and I’m mighty glad that he got away.”
Gatlin shook his head. “There ain’t no one got a better right to say that than you has, Miss,” he said, “fer ’twas your gold as was stole, an’ your messenger as was shot up; but nevertheless an’ howsumever I got my own private opinion what I’m keepin’ to myself thet it was Bull all right as done it.”
“I’d just like to see this Black Coyote once,” said the girl. “I’d know if it was Bull or not.”
“They ain’t no chanct today, Miss,” Gatlin told her. “They ain’t no gold shipment today, unless I’m mighty mistook.”
“Don’t he ever make a mistake?” asked the girl.
“Never hain’t yet, Miss.”
Diana relapsed into silence, her thoughts reverting to her interview with the Kansas City attorney. He had not held out very roseate hopes. By means of litigation — long and expensive — she might, after a number of years, get a small portion of her father’s share of the business. She had better take a cash settlement, if she could get one, he thought. A hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in the hand would be much better, in his opinion, than a long drawn-out suit that could be nothing better than an expensive gamble with the odds against her.
“But I won’t! I won’t! I won’t be robbed,” she ejaculated beneath her breath.
“How’s that, Miss?” inquired Bill Gatlin. “Was you speakin’ to me?”
“I must have been thinking aloud,” she said, smiling. “What a long pull this is, Bill!”
“We’re nigh to the summit,” he replied, pulling in his team to breathe them for a moment.
On the shoulder of Wagon Mountain overlooking the south stretch of Hell’s Bend Pass road two men sat their horses amidst a clump of chaparral that effectually hid them from the road, though they could see nearly its entire length from the summit to the gap at the bottom. Presently one of them spoke.
“Here it comes,” he said. He was a swarthy, powerfully built Mexican, somewhere in his thirties, Gregorio, the bandit.
His companion was adjusting a black silk handkerchief across his face in such a way as to entirely hide his features. There were two small holes cut in the handkerchief opposite its wearer’s eyes which, through them, were fixed upon the stage as it topped the pass and started downward upon its rapid and careening descent toward the gap and Hendersville.
“Come,” said Gregorio, and wheeled his horse about.
His companion’s mount moved suddenly before the handkerchief was finally adjusted and as the man reached for his reins the thing fell away from his face, revealing it. It was Bull.
A second attempt was more successful and then the men rode down the sheer mountain-side, keeping just below the crest upon the south side and hidden from the view of the driver and the passenger upon the stage. Their horses moved with extreme care and without haste, for the way was precarious, occasionally requiring that the horses sit upon their haunches and slide for short distances until they found footing again further down. The riders seemed unperturbed either by the dangers of the descent or fear of being late at their rendezvous, suggesting habitude with the work in hand. In a dense growth of scrub just above the gap they tied their horses, continuing on foot.
The stage lumbered downward, rocking from side to side. Diana held tight and said nothing. She had ridden with Bill Gatlin before, many times. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
“This ain’t nothin’,” he said, as though in answer to a remonstrance on her part. Diana knew what was coming. She had heard it many times. “No, siree,” continued Bill, “this ain’t nothin’. Why, you’d orter ben with me one night when I was on the Denver run in the ol’ days, afore the railroads spoiled the country. The trail crossed plumb over the top of a mountain.
‘Twarn’t no road. ‘Twarn’t nothin’ but a trail. I hed the of stage plumb full an’ passengers a-hangin’ onto the boot. It was pitch dark — the doggonest, darkest night I ever see. Couldn’t see airy wheel-horse. Only ways I knowed I hed any horses was when their shoes struck fire on the stony parts o’ the road. Jest afore we struck the top o’ the mountain they was the worst cloud-bust I ever did see. Them horses had to swim the last hundred rods to the top o’ thet mountain, an’ the of stage was bobbin’ aroun’ so on the waves thet eight of the passengers got sea-sick.
“But thet wa’n’t nothin’. When we come to the top I found the road’d ben all washed away. They wa’n’t no more road ‘n a jack-rabbit; but I was a-carryin’ the mail, jest like I be now an’ I hed to git through. It was a high mountain an’ tolably steep, but not no trees, so I see there wa’n’t only one thing to do an’ thet was to go down road or no road, so right there on the top o’ thet mountain I threw the leather into ’em an’ headed ’em fer Denver an’ down we goes faster’n ever I rid afore
or since, the wheelers a jumpin’ to keep out o’ the way o’ the stage an’ the leaders a jumpin’ to keep out o’ the way o’ the wheelers.
“Well, sir, we was a-goin’ so fast thet the fust thing I knowed the friction hed melted the nut offen the nigh front wheel an’ away went thet wheel hell-bentfer-election down the mountain, but it couldn’t keep up with the stage an’ purty soon it was left behind, but the stage was a-goin’ so fast thet it never missed thet wheel at all. An’ purty soon off came the off rear wheel, an’ thet wheel couldn’t keep up, though I could see it was doin’ its best outen the corner o’ my eye.
“Well, sir, ‘twa’n’t long afore tother hind wheel came off, but we was goin’ about twict as fast now as when the fust wheel came off an’ that of stage jest skimmed along on one wheel a dinged sight smoother an’ it ever done on four. When we were about to the bottom off come the last wheel an’ then thinks I fer sure we gotta quit an’ we ain’t to Denver yit, but we’d got so much mo-mentum by this time thet the last wheel didn’t make no more difference then the others.
“Them horses jest drug thet stage out behind them like a comet does its tail an’ on we went streakin’ down thet mountain an’ five mile out onto the flat afore the stage hit the ground an’ then, o’ course, we hed to stop. It was too bad. I tell you I felt plumb sore. I hadn’t never ben off schedule sence I took the run.
“Then, all of a suddint, says one o’ the passengers, ‘Look back yender, Bill,’ says he. ‘Look what’s comin’!’ An’ I looked an’ there come them four wheels a-tearin’ across the flat straight fer us. Well, to make a long story short, they peters out right beside the stage an’ with the help o’ the passengers an’ some extra nuts we got ’em back on where they belonged an’ pulled into Denver two hours ahead o’ time. But I tell you, Miss, thet was some ride. I’d hate to hev to take it again. Why—”
“Hands up! Put ’em up!”
The stage had slowed down for the rough road through the gap, when two men with muffled faces stepped before the leaders, covering the driver and his lone passenger with wicked-looking six-guns.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 565