Tinhorn's Daughter

by L. Ron Hubbard

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Murder Threat

  FOR two months, Betsy Trotwood heard nothing of Sunset Maloney and the chill of the fall which came early to these high mountains seeped into her heart.

  At first she had argued unceasingly with herself against the unreasoning love she knew she bore for the tall, flame-haired frontiersman. She told herself that it was the drama she had experienced with him. She added that it was the strangeness of his type which had attracted her. But no amount of hereditary calm could talk down the fact that she did love him, bandit and killer though he might be.

  The night she had found herself alone in the cabin had become symbolical of what he meant to her. In Puma Pass she was out of place and felt it keenly. She seemed to dwell at some distance from the town and though broad hats were always tipped and men made way for her with gallantry wherever she went, she could feel the bars between herself and these hard-living Westerners. They treated her with much restraint for two reasons. She was a “good woman,” the first to come to Puma Pass, and she was the daughter of Slim Trotwood, otherwise Double-Deck, otherwise Boston Slim, whose reign in the mountains had become intolerable.

  With cash in his pockets, with Simpson and a dozen hard-lipped gunmen at his back, Trotwood was buying up the pass right-of-way, foot by foot, for miles on either side of the range. Deed after deed found its way into his pocket. Now and then men were missing, but no one dared ask how or why. Great Western, said Trotwood smoothly, had to have the right-of-way and mere settlers could not stand in its steel path. He paid fifty percent of the recognized value and men accepted it, knowing the fate of others.

  Trotwood’s black frock coat, flowing tie and white-topped boots were always an occasion for whispers and sullen stares in Puma Pass. But Trotwood told them bluntly that with all of unsettled Montana for range, men should not feel badly about giving up their few acres in the Continental Divide. The Oregon Trail trade, which was prospering, meant nothing to him but much to Puma Pass.

  And though Betsy might sense some of this, she had no reason to feel suspicious of her father. To her he was cool and polite as a gentleman from Boston might be expected to be.

  Even the promise of riches he had given her when she had first come had been delivered with well-bred restraint. Boston Slim Trotwood could be most convincing, especially so to this small young lady who had arrived so unexpectedly and whose arrival had been so financially welcome.

  While there was still another seventy-five thousand dollars in her mother’s estate, Betsy did not need to worry about her treatment at Trotwood’s hands. It would be excellent.

  At the end of the first month, he had requested additional capital. And, mistaking the restraint of the town toward him for respect, seeing how well he was doing, she could not refuse.

  Two weeks later he had required more and he had received it via stage and the bank at Virginia City, to which the funds were relayed from the East.

  She had felt no alarm at the dwindling numbers in her account book. They were numbers only and she knew nothing of finance. She experienced a certain excitement at being so important to Trotwood’s undertaking.

  And then, a week before, she had written the last check she was able to write, not in the least alarmed at the fact that she was now penniless, two thousand miles from home, in a strange land which seemed to want to keep her a stranger. Trotwood had been very certain of swift returns. He would double her money in a month.

  She sat, at evening, at the window of the crudely furnished cabin which fronted the town’s only street. The long mountain dusk had faded into the lamplighted night. A train of emigrants had left the dust stirring lazily in the road as they went to their camping ground higher in the pass. Scouts in buckskin, cowboys in high-heeled boots, cavalrymen in blue, mud-spattered miners all mingled in the parade which passed her door. But Sunset was not there.

  She turned as Trotwood entered the dim room and watched him light the table lamp. Her skirt of pale blue silk rustled as she stood.

  “The stage came in a moment ago,” Trotwood informed her.

  “Was … was it held up?” she said, hiding the eagerness in her voice.

  “No. Maloney must have died or left the country.”

  The light was too dim for him to see the sadness of her small face.

  “We have all of it now,” he continued. “Tonight I shall close the last deal.”

  “And then we’ll leave this place?”

  He shrugged and went to his desk. She wondered a little at his curtness as it was unusual for him. She sat down, watching him write lengthily and listening to the scratch of his pen.

  Again she turned to the street, watching for a buckskin shirt and a wide hat in this passing multitude. It seemed as though all the West was going past her door, but the only portion of it she desired was not there.

  So deep was her concentration that she did not hear Trotwood rise from his chair and leave. She was startled to see him crossing the dusty street, shouldering through the crowd, as she thought he was still behind her. By the light which streamed in square pillars from a saloon door, she saw him stop Simpson and give him a letter. The instructions were long and Trotwood seemed very careful about them. He went on into the saloon and Simpson turned to his horse at a hitch rack and forked leather.

  She watched Simpson depart. Two more of Trotwood’s men swung up the saloon steps and went in. They came out a little later, crossed the street and walked toward another saloon.

  She heard their voices through her open window.

  “About time we was paid off.”

  “Yeah, I’m dead for a spree. Where next, Peewee?”

  “Oregon, I guess. Plenty gunwork over the mountains.”

  They went out of her sight and she sat puzzling over what they had said. Trotwood was through here but she felt oddly about this payoff. It was strange to have another spend her money without consulting her. Still, as she always told herself, he was her father and he needed her help.

  The night air was growing colder and she moved to the fireplace and laid sticks on the coals. Doing that gave her pain, somehow, and yet there was pleasure in that pain. Sunset had done that.

  She sat back, watching the blaze fan to life, thinking far thoughts. What was it she had seen in that frontiersman? She had been with him for such a short time. And yet it seemed, in retrospect, that she had lived with him for months, even years.

  Dwelling upon his image, her head sank further back against the chair. She dozed fitfully, waking at long intervals to put more wood upon the fire. And then a change in the tone of the street roused her.

  Puma Pass, always noisy after dark, began to double its volume. Something was happening out there.

  She got up and hurried to the window, throwing back the shutter to look out. Men were standing in small groups talking or hurrying down the street or up the street to get into other groups, talk and then hurry onward.

  Presently two horsemen came riding through the yellow patches of light from the east. No. One horseman. The other mount had something dark dangling from either side of the saddle.

  She stepped back with an involuntary gasp as the mustangs walked slowly past. Simpson’s body was lashed over his saddle.

  The horseman, one of Trotwood’s riders, pulled up before the Palace Saloon. In an instant the collected crowd opened on either side of the doors and Trotwood’s tall black silhouette stood on the porch against the light.

  The crowd was still.

  “It’s Simpson,” said the rider.

  Trotwood took one step down and stopped. “Who killed him?”

  “He was headin’ out of town,” said the rider, “and I met up with him and offered to go along. We went about half a mile when a feller rode out in front of us and stopped. Simpson told him to get out of the way but he wouldn’t budge. We recognized him both at the same time and Simpson dra
wed. But he wasn’t fast enough. Sunset Maloney drilled him twice before he hit ground.”

  “What were you doing?” said Trotwood acidly.

  “What could I do?” protested the rider.

  “Did Maloney examine the body?”

  “Sure. He took a letter out of Simpson’s pocket.”

  “And you let him get away with it?”

  “What could I do?”

  Trotwood stepped down beside the horse and gruesome burden. He ran his hands into Simpson’s pockets and brought them forth empty. He walked back up the steps and turned at the top.

  “Somebody get a shovel and bury him.”

  He went on inside the saloon.

  Betsy closed the shutters and turned to the fire which seemed cold and gray. She sat down and stared long at the dying embers, trying not to think.

  The street noises faded as the excitement decreased and were again normal. She did not hear them. She heard nothing.

  But suddenly she looked up and there was Sunset standing beside her chair, looking at her.

  She was startled but she showed none of it. Her poise was her mother’s, too great to be shaken easily.

  “You came back,” she said.

  “I had to come back,” replied Sunset.

  He relaxed a little and sat on his heels before the fire, tossing sticks on the coals. She looked down on the broad expanse of his buckskin-covered back. She had thought she would challenge him for the murder of Simpson but she did not. She could think of only one thing. He cared enough to dare all this to come to her.

  “I been having a hard time of it,” said Sunset in a soft drawl. “You sure messed things up, ma’am. Long as I could keep money out of his hands, I had him licked. But when I found out it was your money, I couldn’t take it. So I been layin’ off, waiting for my chance. I hate to have to come to you saying these things. I’d rather be saying things a whole lot easier to take.”

  He was not looking at her. He was troubled. She wanted to reach out and touch the shoulder fringe of his shirt.

  “You ain’t packed up, ma’m.”

  “Should I be?”

  “Accordin’ to the stars, it’s close to midnight. I had to hurry for fear you’d be gone. But you don’t seem to be leavin’ with him.”

  “With my father?”

  “Yes. Have you … did you give him all your money?”

  “Of course.”

  “I see. You got any idea about what you’ll do if he leaves you flat in Puma Pass?”

  “Why should that be necessary? If he leaves, he’ll take me with him.”

  “Nothing can shake your faith in him?”

  “He’s my father.”

  “God shore plays some funny tricks sometimes.” Sunset stirred the coals and the heated sticks blazed up, crackling, painting his strong profile with light.

  “I had ideas, ma’am. I’m a presumin’ cuss. I thought maybe something would happen to straighten this out. But nothin’ has. He’s got deeds to the right-of-way. He’s bought out everybody at a shameful price and killed them that wouldn’t sell.…”

  “Please.”

  He pivoted to look at her face. “I had ideas. I thought maybe you would think as much of me as I have of you. But I couldn’t expect that. You wouldn’t touch me. You’ve seen me kill men. You know what I am. And no amount of arguing could ever convince you otherwise. I’m not worthy to touch the hem of your skirt. But that’s not sayin’ I won’t take the right to help you.”

  In alarm she could not explain, she said, “What do you mean?”

  He threw more sticks on the flames and they leaped eagerly upward to light the whole room. Sunset stood up. His spurs jingled and his cartridge belts creaked. His right-hand gun was on the level of her eyes.

  She could feel the strength of him.

  Sunset’s voice was quiet. “I tried to tell you that he’s Double-Deck Trotwood. You won’t believe me. Right now, he’s aimin’ to walk out of Puma Pass and leave you helpless and broke. He ain’t goin’ to leave.”

  “Sunset!”

  “He can take care of himself. I tell you he’s Double-Deck Trotwood, fast as a strikin’ rattler with his shoulder gun. You needn’t worry about the odds.”

  She was on her feet, eyes wide as she tried to find ways to protest. But she was too much afraid of his strength, of the way he stood there.

  Sunset walked to the door. “I’m sorry it had to end this way, ma’am. I wanted it otherwise. But it’s my last card.”

  “Sunset!”

  He was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sunset’s Return

  THE man who said his name was Smith was watching Trotwood. He was too intent to notice the precise moment Bat Connor slid into a seat at his table. He became aware of Bat when Connor helped himself to a drink from Smith’s bottle.

  Smith expressed no surprise. “You’ve been gone quite a while.”

  “Two awful dry months,” said Bat.

  “Any reason you come back just now?”

  “You’re full of questions,” said Bat. He drank and then wiped his whiskers with the back of his hand. “Keep yore eyes peeled and you’ll know why I’m back.”

  “Sunset is in town?”

  “You almost got him killed once, detainin’ me.”

  “You don’t seem to be very scared about getting caught. Everybody knows,” said Smith.

  “Sure they do.” Bat poured himself another drink but it was never downed.

  Trotwood had been standing at the far end of the bar, talking with a worried and sagging rancher. Money had just changed hands and a deed had just been signed. Trotwood’s hold on Puma Pass was at last complete.

  Others were lined along the mahogany in easy poses but now a ripple of tension ran down the brass-railed length. Man nudged neighbor and all faces were toward the door for one long, appalling instant.

  Sunset had stepped into the big, smoky room. When he was two paces inside he stopped, hands carefully away from his guns, stiff-brimmed hat on the back of his head, flame-colored hair almost in his eyes. Then, even the fringes on his shirt stopped swinging.

  Trotwood faced around and stiffened. He put both feet solidly upon the floor and was motionless.

  With one concerted dive the pathway between them was cleared. A table crashed and then everybody stopped, leaving a space the width of a bowling alley between the two.

  Bat carefully laid his six-gun on the table before him. Smith’s eyes were critical.

  A big clock above the bar ticked with agonizing monotony, loud all out of proportion.

  Sunset’s voice was clear and controlled. “A couple months ago, you wanted to get me pretty bad, Double-Deck. You got your chance now.”

  Trotwood was not afraid. His short gun had been the winner too many times, and even though this range was long for him, he knew what he could do. It showed on his face as his thin mouth relaxed into a contemptuous smile.

  Abruptly Trotwood’s hand stabbed inside his coat. A badly sewn button flew. Before men could realize he had moved, his short gun glittered, swinging level.

  Sunset’s hands flashed across his body as he snapped into a crouch. Cocked by their weight as they came free, his big Colts boomed together, their crashing thunder swallowing up the one short bark of Trotwood’s gun.

  Smoke swept forward toward a common meeting point and then slowly down to swirl with decreasing density. It rose upward.

  Trotwood sagged against the bar, clutching at the edge. He let himself down slowly, pulling a long sheet of paper with him. His grip was tenacious, and even after he slumped to the floor, he still had the paper, redly dyed, the stain growing out toward the word Deed.

  Nobody moved, even then, and the big clock ticked with loud, progressive regularity in the smoky silence.

  Light, hurrying
footsteps on the steps outside broke the spell. Betsy swung the shuttered door open and stared down the room, hand at her throat.

  Sunset shoved his guns back into holsters. There was dark misery in his eyes.

  He went past her and into the street. Voices babbled behind him as he strode along. Men gave him all the road there was, wishing they had nerve enough to speak to him and tell him of their gratitude.

  People were surging toward the Palace Saloon. Men who had owned land and miners who had owned claims, raced eagerly to find out if it was really so, if Trotwood’s power had been broken by a bullet, what chance there was of recovering what had been lost.

  Sunset heard none of it. He reached the edge of town and mounted his waiting horse. Wearily he walked the mount down the trail and into the darkness.

  Bat Connor and the man who said his name was Smith took care of Betsy. They met no resistance from her when they led her across the road to the cabin. She did not seem to be aware of them or of her own whereabouts. She sank down in a chair before the fire and the blaze was dying low.

  She knew dully that the stranger and Bat Connor were talking, and though she heard it clearly she could make nothing of their words, nor did she have the energy to try.

  And then they were on either side of her. Bat took a letter back from Smith and held it before her face.

  “See there!” said Bat. “There’s the proof! It’s in his own handwriting!”

  She saw it and wondered if it was the one he had written such a short time before, but nothing could excite her interest now.

  “Listen to it,” said Bat. He read:

  President

  Great Western Railroad

  Dear Sir;

  It gives me great pleasure to inform you, sir, that I am in possession of all lands in and adjacent to Puma Pass. Though I am not known to you, I know you will be interested. I have it on good authority that within a year you will contemplate building over the Continental Divide and I know that this is the one pass which you will find feasible. It will come as a shock to you, of course, that this land is already held. But your shortsightedness is my gain. I am leaving some hours after the bearer and will arrive close on the heels of this letter. To facilitate this transaction, you will have a hundred and fifty thousand dollars ready to place to my credit in a Chicago bank. This is of the utmost necessity as I am in something of a hurry. My price will go up in direct ratio to any delay.