The Pulp Hero

by Theodore A. Tinsley

  He wore two guns, but wouldn’t have had the nerve to use them. The guns were hypocrisy, the ring an imitation. The two were symbolic of the man who wore them—an “imitation,” and a hypocrite.

  Penny walked past without speaking, and entered the kitchen where old Gimlet was cooking supper. His one good eye, set in a round and wrinkled face, was like the currant in a hot cross bun. The one eye that gave the man his nickname was sharp and penetrating, but now it lighted with pleasure at the sight of the girl.

  “Keee-ripes,” exclaimed Gimlet, “I’m glad tuh see yuh back, Miss Penny. I shore as hell—pardon the cussin’—I shore worry when yuh ain’t around.”

  Penny smiled. “I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be here for supper. I’m going over to Becky’s place.”

  Gimlet frowned. “If I’d o’ knowed that I’d o’ taken a lot less trouble in fixin’ good eatin’ steaks.”

  The girl exchanged a few more words with the cook, then left by the rear door. At the corral, which lay between her home and Rebecca’s, she saw Yuma working on Las Vegas.

  Yuma was the only new employee in the Basin that Penny could look at without an instinctive feeling of revulsion. Yuma was working a brush vigorously over the hide of the mustang when Penny approached. She had heard a few rumors about the big, pleasant-faced cowpuncher, with shoulders so big and broad that they seemed to droop of their own weight.

  It had been said by expert judges of good fighters that a blow from Yuma’s fist would drop a bull. He had once been locked in the back room of a saloon with four men in what was to be a fight to the finish—Yuma’s finish, supposedly. A short time later his fists crashed through the panels of a locked door and a mighty demon of a man walked out. His clothing was in shreds. Inside the room, debris and wreckage were everywhere, and four men were prostrate on the floor.

  “You needn’t rub the hide off him,” said Penny as she came near. Yuma looked up and grew red in the face. Before the pretty girl, the giant was flushed and bashful.

  “Shore, ma’am, I’m right sorry. I—I had a little time on my hands an’ seen yore hoss. Bein’ as you warn’t around, I figgered tuh clean the hoss up some.”

  “And if I’d been around,” replied the girl in a teasing voice, “I suppose you’d have cleaned me up.”

  Yuma stared, mouth open. “Y-y-yew, g-g-gosh, Miss Penelope, I—er—uh.…” He paused, completely at a loss.

  Penny really enjoyed watching the young giant squirm in his embarrassment. She rested her elbows on a rail of the corral, and hooked the heel of one boot on a lower rail. Leaning back, she watched him for a moment, then said, “What’s your name?”

  “Folks jest sort o’ call me ‘Yuma’—that’s where I come from, Yuma.”

  “But everyone has to have at least two names. Don’t you have any other?”

  “Most o’ the gents I seen around this yere Basin lays claim tuh a couple o’ names an’ lies when they does so.” Yuma straightened and looked directly at the girl with his clear blue eyes.

  “That remark,” she said, “calls for a little expanding. What do you mean?”

  “Oh, ’tain’t nothin’ tuh take offense at,” the blond man said slowly. “A lot o’ gents in this country left their right names east of the Mississippi, but I’d sooner not use any name than tuh borrow one that might belong tuh some other gent.”

  Penny feigned a bit of anger. “Do you mean to imply that Cavendish isn’t our right name?”

  “Aw, shucks, ma’am—nothin’ like that. I reckon you an’ yore relatives has a right tuh the name, but they hain’t many others on this spread that was born with the handle they’re usin’ right now.”

  “Go on, Yuma. This is interesting.”

  Yuma saw Rangoon crossing toward the bunkhouse from the saddle shed. “Thar,” he said, “goes a gent that lays claim tuh the name o’ Rangoon. Last time I seen him, he called himself Abe Larkin, but he made that name sort o’ dangerous by usin’ it when he shot up a couple homesteaders near Snake Flats.”

  “You mean he’s a murderer?”

  “That’s what the law’d like tuh hang him fer bein’ if they knowed where tuh reach him.”

  Yuma took a step closer to the girl, his thumb jerked over his shoulder in the general direction of the open grazing land. “Out thar brandin’ cattle,” he said, “they’s a couple hombres that was in the hoss-tradin’ business in Mexico last year. They sold hosses tuh some soldiers down thar. Only trouble with that was that they wasn’t pertickler whar from the hosses came. When they got catched takin’ some hossflesh from a gent named Turner, without payin’ fer the same, they shot old Turner.”

  Penny knew from his manner that Yuma told the truth, but she nevertheless found it hard to believe him. “What are their names?” she asked.

  “No one knows their real names, but they draw pay here under the names of Lombard an’ Sawtell. As fer me, yuh c’n jest call me ‘Yuma.’”

  Penny grew serious. “Very well,” she said, “I’ll call you Yuma.”

  “I suppose it’s right nervy o’ me tuh make mention o’ this next,” said Yuma, “But, I—er—uh.…”

  “Perhaps,” interrupted the girl, “if you think it nervy, you’d better not say it.”

  “Wal, I’m agoin’ tuh jest the same. Now see here, Miss Penelope, I would sure like yuh tuh feel that if ever yuh want someone that yuh c’n count on tuh do somethin’, no matter what it is, you’ll call on me.”

  “But I hardly know you,” said Penny—then, irrepressibly, “this is so sudden!”

  Yuma’s eyes dropped. Penny could have bitten her tongue. She had turned the sincerity of the man from Arizona aside with banter. She realized instantly that Yuma sensed the danger others had mentioned and wanted her to know where he stood.

  “I’m right sorry,” he apologized, “I should o’ knowed better’n tuh try tuh suggest that a no-good saddle tramp like me could be of any good tuh a lady like you.”

  Penny laid a brown hand on the solid arm of Yuma. She felt the hard muscles trembling at her touch.

  “Forgive me, Yuma,” she said seriously, “I’m sorry. I want you to know that I do appreciate your offer and that you’ll be the first one I’ll call on if I need a friend.”

  Yuma looked startled. “Yuh—yuh mean t-t-tuh say…that is, I mean—you—”

  “My friends call me Penny.” The girl stuck her right hand out, man-style. “What say, Yuma?—let’s be friends.”

  Yuma hurriedly wiped his right hand on his shirt. He clasped Penny’s hand as if it were a delicate thing that might break at a calloused touch. “G-gosh,” he said.

  Penny left and ran toward Becky’s. Yuma watched the girl, who ran as gracefully as a fawn. He looked in awe at his hand, the hand that had touched the girl’s slim fingers. Once more he muttered, “Gosh.” He saw Las Vegas eyeing him. “Las Vegas,” he said to the mustang, “me an’ you are downright lucky critters, an’ the only difference is that you ain’t the brains tuh know it.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  A MATTER OF MURDER

  Tonto the Indian was breaking a trail across Thunder Mountain where it was said no horse could travel. In a cavern in Bryant’s Gap, a Texas Ranger tossed in the torture of fever and infection. In the Basin, Penelope Cavendish ran to a house whose door had been chalked by Death.

  Penny was slightly out of breath from running when she opened the door of Becky’s home. The place was of one room, with a cloth partition at the far end shutting off the beds from view. Some of the children must have been in bed, for there were only two in sight, both whimpering and sweaty. The room was like an oven with heat from the stove and humidity from the recent rain. Mort was scolding the uncomprehending baby in the crib and the sobbing child who sat on the floor. Mort’s presence was a surprise. It must have been later than Penny had thought. He swung toward his cousin.

  �
�What do you want here?” he demanded.

  “Becky invited me for dinner,” lied Penny. “I hoped to get here in time to help her.” Brushing past Mort she said, “What can I do, Becky?”

  The mother of many looked up with tired eyes from the stove.

  “What’s the use?” she said.

  “For dinner!” Mort’s voice was loud. “My, but ain’t we gettin’ to be the class. Invitin’ company for dinner.” He snatched a big spoon from a table and thrust it into a stew that was on the stove. “You call that swill dinner? You’d come here an’ eat the sort of truck she cooks?”

  “Please be quiet a minute,” said Penny.

  Becky broke in. “’Tain’t no use lyin’ about it, Penny. Mort ain’t no fool, an’ he knows yuh ain’t come tuh eat. Yuh come thinkin’ he’d whale me again tuhnite because he catched me in yer room this mornin’. He won’t though—yuh needn’t have no fear on that score.”

  Mort looked at Becky with a surprise that equaled Penny’s. The tired drudge returned his stare.

  “I mean it,” she said. The whimpering of the young ones ceased as they became absorbed in the adult conversation. “I’ve been licked by you fer the last time. Yuh beat me fer hearin’ things t’other night, but that beatin’ ain’t made me fergit what I heard. I know the kind of things that’s goin’ on in this Basin.”

  “Yuh know too much,” retorted Mort, advancing on his wife with clenched fists. For an instant it looked as if the man were going to strike Becky.

  “Go ahead,” cried Becky shrilly, “go on an’ knock me down an’ I’ll see to it that there ain’t no slip-up the next time I try tuh put you an’ yer pack of wolves where yuh belong!”

  Penny darted a quick look at the children. They seemed fascinated by the argument between their parents. She felt the embarrassment the others lacked the grace to feel. She was frightened for Rebecca, but Rebecca was a changed personality who now seemed formidable.

  “I thought the hull thing over, Mort Cavendish,” went on Rebecca, her dark eyes glowing with hatred and defiance. “I ain’t nothin’ tuh gain by seein’ the pack of you jailed. It don’t matter tuh me if you an’ Bryant an’ all the rest of yuh stay here or rot in jail.” Her bosom rose and fell quickly with the intensity of her outburst. “Or yuh c’n dangle at the end of a rope. I wouldn’t care. I’ve watched the lot of you Cavendishes, with yer stuck-up ‘holier-than-thou’ ways. I’m sick of yuh, but I aim tuh stay here just the same. You keep outen this house an’ leave me an’ the children alone an’ I’ll keep my lips buttoned up as tuh what I know about yuh! Lay hand on me again, an’ this time yuh won’t have the chance tuh kill off them that comes fer yuh!”

  Mort looked apoplectic, as rage made his face deep scarlet. He trembled visibly with his effort to control himself.

  “That’s my bargain, Mort—as long as I c’n be rid of you by keepin’ quiet with what I know, I’m satisfied tuh go on livin’ here an’ doin’ the best I can tuh raise the young’uns. Take it or leave it.”

  Mort turned abruptly and strode from the house, banging the door closed.

  “Pack of skunks,” fumed Becky to no one in particular. “It makes me sick, seein’ the way they all think I ain’t good enough fer ’em, while every last one o’ them is a thievin’ killer, takin’ orders from Bryant himself!”

  “Becky,” said Penny, “you can say all you want to about Mort and Vince, or even Wallie and Jeb—”

  “Say all I want about anyone!” snapped Becky, with a fire she’d never shown before.

  “But when you call Uncle Bryant a crook, you’re mistaken,” continued the girl, ignoring the interruption. “I know Uncle Bryant is stern, he’s as hard as a hickory knot, and he’s unforgiving. He resents your being here and he’s been mighty mean to you, but he’s not a crook!”

  “If he ain’t a crook, why does he let crooks hang out here? He ain’t blind, is he? And as for you, I don’t want none of yore sympathy or help, neither. Maybe I ain’t no fancy education or high-falutin’ clo’es, an’ my looks an’ figger ain’t what they was ten years ago, but I c’n hold my head high afore anyone an’ not have tuh admit that I got cousins an’ uncles that the law should o’ hung some time ago.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Becky. Now calm down and get that meal ready for the kids.”

  “I don’t need you tuh tell me what tuh do,” cried the infuriated woman. “I done plenty of thinkin’ since this mornin’ when you the same as laughed at me fer tryin’ tuh warn yuh away from here. Yuh wouldn’t believe that this Basin is a hellhole, reekin’ with murder plans. All right, don’t believe me. I know what I heard in the cottonwoods, an’ I heard aplenty. I was a fool tuh send word tuh Captain Blythe o’ the Texas Rangers. All it got me was a beatin’ an’ all the Rangers done was tuh git themselves killed off. ’Stead o’ tellin’ what I know, I’ll keep it private an’ make that polecat husband of mine leave me alone tuh save his neck. I reckon he’ll keep outen my sight now, all right. He knows that I can fetch the law here any time I want.”

  Glass from the window crashed in before the sound of the shot reached Penny’s ears. She instinctively knew it was a forty-five slug that tore through the window. Her startled half cry of alarm and surprise choked in her throat as she saw Rebecca spin halfway around from the impact of the lead and stagger giddily for several seconds. Then Penny clutched her about the waist and tried to guide her to a chair. Becky’s mouth dropped open, her hand clutched her breast, and she stared unbelievingly at the red that seeped between her fingers.

  “Easy now,” said Penny, “take it easy, Becky.” The slim girl found the woman surprisingly heavy to support. She was compelled to ease her to the floor. She was only vaguely aware of the cries that came from the older children, who raced from beyond the curtains.

  “It—it don’t hurt much,” faltered Becky. “I—I should o’ knowed better. Mort…Mort’s the one…mebbe now you’ll believe.…” Her voice was weak, so weak that Penny could barely understand what she was saying. Rebecca’s body trembled convulsively. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened wide, and her dark eyes looked at Penny with a glaze over them.

  “Now,” she began slowly, “now you’ll believe this Basin is a nest o’ killers.” The tired eyes closed. Penny lowered the woman’s head and felt for a pulse she knew was gone. The children crowded around, wide-eyed and unbelieving. The oldest boy said:

  “Now Maw won’t have tuh be hurt by Pa no more.”

  At the brave look in the pinched, small face, Penny choked up. She gathered the lad to her. “No, Billy, Maw won’t have any more pain of any sort, and don’t you worry. I’m going to take care of you little fellows.”

  She would have said more, but another crash from outside interrupted. She raced for the window through which the previous bullet had come, and saw a startling sight. Mort Cavendish was clawing at his throat and staggering like a drunken man. But only for an instant. Then his legs caved as he crumpled to the ground.

  Penny ran from the house and splashed through the puddles on the ground to where Mort lay. Yuma, running from another direction, reached the fallen man at about the same time.

  “Stand back,” he said. “I’ll tend tuh things.” He rolled Mort over. The wound in the neck, just beneath the jawbone, was still clasped by the hand of the unconscious man. Red moisture seeped between his fingers. Yuma drew a bandanna from his pocket, then paused as he looked again at Penny. “I told yuh tuh stand back,” he said. “I got tuh have a look at this wound.”

  “Go on and have a look,” snapped the girl. “Feel his pulse and see if he’s still alive.”

  “He’s livin’, all right, but you vamoose—this mayn’t be a pleasant sight tuh see.”

  “What do you take me for, a sissy? Pull his hand away, and let’s see how badly he’s hurt.”

  Yuma nodded, muttering beneath his breath. Penny noticed that the big cowb
oy was now fully composed and at ease. He seemed competent and direct in manner. His flustered embarrassment of the corral was gone. He examined the wound with a skill that showed familiarity with such things. Though it bled profusely, Yuma said, “Just grazed him. I reckon he’ll live without no trouble.”

  “If he lives, he’ll hang! He’s murdered Becky,” said Penny flatly. “And I hope he lives.”

  Yuma, holding the bandanna against the wound, looked at the girl and spoke with an exasperating drawl.

  “Maybe you ain’t heard straight, Miss Penny, but I tried tuh tell you a little while ago that they don’t hang killers in this Basin. What they do is tuh hire ’em an’ sleep ’em an’ eat ’em an’ keep ’em hid so’s the law cain’t git at ’em.”

  Penny chose to let the speech pass for the time being. There were other things that needed attention. Yuma looked at the wound and commented, “Maybe I better put a tourniquet around his neck tuh stop the bleedin’.”

  “A tourniquet would strangle him,” advised Penelope.

  Yuma nodded. “I know it.”

  Vince came running to investigate the shots, with Jeb ambling behind.

  “Who done it, who shot him?” demanded Vince in a loud voice. He elbowed Yuma to one side and bent to examine the wound. “Better git him tuh the house; there’s more room there than here in the shack.” Yuma nodded silently. “Well, go on,” snapped Vince. “Pick him up an’ carry him to Bryant’s house.”

  Penny watched the blond Yuma lift Mort off the ground as if he had been a baby. He tossed him over one shoulder as he might have done with a sack of flour and walked toward the house, followed by Vince. Penny turned abruptly and bumped into Jeb, who stood close behind her.