The dog wagged his stump of tail and followed. It was a lucky day, after all, especially for the dog.
THE BADMAN’S BRAND, by H. Bedford-Jones
I.
Two horses stood under a dreary live oak, on the upland of Mesa Verde, rifles in saddle boots. Two men stood at the edge of the low-hanging boughs, taking turns looking through a pair of fieldglasses and sampling the contents of a flask. Both men wore the stars of deputy sheriffs.
“Sure?” said one, wiping his mustache. “Gime a look. Take a drink, Pete.”
“Sartin,” returned Pete, swapping glasses for flask. “Calico hoss. Can’t see his face.”
The other looked long and earnestly. In the rarefied air of New Mexico, where distance means nothing, the distant rider on the up trail was clear-cut; the focused glasses brought out his face in sharp relief as he turned to look over his back trail. The face was young, but bearded.
“It’s him, by gosh!” cried the gazing deputy sharply. “And he’s headin’ for town, Pete! By gosh, it’s him! I seen his face plain! What’s the program?”
“Ain’t no program.” Pete flung away the empty flask and turned. “Lead them hosses back to the other tree out o’ sight from the road. You stay this side. I’ll stay the other. When he comes to that there sage-brush clump, plug him—both of us. Don’t give him a chance.”
“I don’t aim to,” was the reply. “Not with that feller, by gosh!”
The lone rider slowly approached the crest of Mesa Verde and wound his way along the yellow road. He was young, bronzed, quick of eye; his clothes were faded and patched, his leather chaps badly worn, his Stetson told of several years of sun and rain. At either hip hung belted gun but he carried no rifle.
He neared a large patch of sage, now fresh and green from the recent rains, and his eye rested on it with appreciation as though he liked the sight of it. The clump grew just beside the road. Other clumps were all round, but this one was particularly large and handsome, if sage is ever handsome. Here and there were other splotches of color—red and yellow cactus blossoms, and an ominous, purplish patch of loco weed.
The rider was jogging along negligently when, as he looked at the sagebrush clump, his eye was caught by something in motion just beyond, back of another clump. Only an Indian-trained eye would have caught the motion where there was nothing in sight, where there was not even a breath of wind to account for it.
Like a flash, the rider acted. He bent over as though to pat his horse, then reined the animal sharply sidewise and with the same movement slipped out of his saddle. One spur caught, and as he hit the ground he went down and rolled over.
To the right of the road a rifle cracked, followed by a second splitting report to the left. The calico horse plunged at the sound, started to run, then stopped. The fallen man, dust spurted into his eyes by the bullets, relaxed and lay quiet.
“Hooray!” came a hoarse shout from the left of the road. “Got ’im, Pete!”
The two deputies, rifle in hand, rose and started for the road. The calico horse stood and gazed at them. The huddled shape lay motionless in the white sunlight.
“Get that hoss,” ordered Pete. “No mistake about it, anyhow. Sure was his face, all right—durned lucky thing he didn’t know that tourist female took a photygraft of him when he held up the Socorro stage,
“Huh? Well, here’s where we collect the reward—my good gosh—look out!”
Too late.
The huddled shape in the road seemed to give a convulsive twist. Then a revolver shattered the noontide silence. The heavy report was repeated. Two shots.
To the left of the road, one deputy plunged forward and lay quiet. To the right, Deputy Pete staggered, turned around, and his knees buckled under him. In the road itself, the huddled shape of the hunted man arose: unhurt, bare headed, hawk eyed.
“You durned fools!” he said in soft, drawling contempt.
He went to his horse, which had not budged, and mounted. Then he started out over the mesa road, and sniffed.
“Thought I smelled liquor,” he commented. “So somebody got a picture of me, huh? That kills the whole game, blast it! Now they’re after me. Now…”
He frowned, looked again toward the distant town of Bear Falls, and shook his head as though telling himself the game was not worth the candle. He turned the calico horse about and rode back whence he had come, and was presently out of sight.
Among the rocks, Deputy Pete rose, held a hand to his head, wiped blood out of his eyes, and cursed in a heartfelt manner. He staggered across the road, took one look at his companion, and then sought his horses. So ended the drama of Mesa Verde, which was destined to have far-reaching consequences.
* * * *
That same afternoon the Santa Fe stage lumbered into Bear Falls, much to the relief of Slivers Lawrence, who had a deal on with some Navajos who were living off the reservation. Slivers ranched up in the White Mountains when he felt like it, and at other times did some odd trading with the Indians, and was the last man in the Southwest to know the taste of beaver-tail and wild turkey.
Slivers was law abiding, as a settled and respected citizen of forty should be, but he had a blood-feud or two on his hands none the less. Just now, he had some trading to do, and was most impatient for a trunk load of stuff he had ordered. So he was in town to meet the stage and his trunk, when the unexpected happened.
The stage drew in, unloaded a general assortment of drummers and other impedimenta, one or two punchers, and a sad-eyed young woman. Slivers thought to himself that she looked like a stray lamb in a flock of wolves, then forgot her at a hail from the stage line agent.
“Your trunk’s in, Slivers! Haul her away if you want her quick.”
Slivers decided there had been a mistake from the size of the trunk, but none the less he got a loafing gentleman of fortune to catch hold of the other end, and carted it into the hotel, where he had a room for the night. When he had it safely stowed in his room, he looked it over carefully. He had ordered a trunk with his name on it in bright red letters, and certainly had got that much—it would tickle Piegan Shortyup pink, this trunk would. But what about the contents?
Not to mention the keys. There were no keys in sight, but Slivers had a bunch in his pocket and fell to work. In ten minutes he had the trunk open. Then he blinked, took another look, and gasped for air as he stared goggle-eyed at the assortment of feminine garments, corsets, and lace goods that met his eye.
“My good gosh!” he exclaimed. “This ain’t my trunk!”
Mr. Lawrence buckled on his gun and went to the lobby of the Aragon House, intending to settle matters with the stage line. As he left the stairway, the clerk behind the desk called to him.
“Hey, Slivers! Come over here!”
Slivers turned, and saw before the desk the same sad-eyed young woman who had descended from the stage—only just now she was mad eyed. The clerk spoke up quickly.
“Been some mistake about trunks, Slivers,” he said. “Mr. Lawrence, meet Miss Bessie Lawrence—Eastern female just struck town. Looks like one name between two folks had mixed things. Miss Lawrence claims she ain’t got the right trunk, and you look sort o’ put out.…”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said Slivers. “I reckon we can straighten things out in no time. Gosh, I’m glad you got mine! I sure ain’t got the right one.”
In no time at all, Slivers was sitting in a chair and telling Miss Lawrence that she could command him in any way, shape or manner. Not that she was pretty, for she was not, nor that Slivers was given to being commanded by the gentler sex, for he certainly was not; but he decided that she needed help. She looked it.
“It’s mighty good of you, Mr. Lawrence,” she replied, that same lost and distressed look coming back into her eyes. “I’d thank you from the bottom of my heart if you could help me find my brother. You see, I came from the East to meet him here, but he doesn’t seem to be here and nobody knows anything about him. I can’t understand it at all. I do
n’t seem to know…”
Slivers scratched his brown chin and told himself that she didn’t know the half of it. Bear Falls was no lovers’ lane, and was no place for unescorted ladies from the East. There was trouble all over the hills with the Mexicans, there was a county seat war on with Silverton, and the ruby silver strike over at Yellow Gulch had attracted rough gentlemen, not to mention a dance hall and two new saloons. Bear Falls, in fact, was loaded for trouble.
So Slivers, having effected the exchange of trunks, promised to give Miss Lawrence some news of her brother after supper, and went forth to seek said news. He found none. Nobody had ever heard of Ed Lawrence. Slivers met the lady after supper and reported failure.
She looked more rested now, and not half so sad; her simple dress bespoke neatness rather than luxury, but she had character, and Slivers liked her. She told him she had been a school teacher in the East, and had come West when her brother sent her money and an invitation to join him. Also, she had done some inquiring herself.
“They tell me you’re a desperate character, Mr. Lawrence,” she said, smiling a little. “That you’re always shooting up Mexicans and so forth.”
Slivers reddened. He knew well enough that nobody had blackened his reputation, but had not thought she would hear about the greaser business.
“I got into trouble with some greasers, all right,” he admitted reluctantly. “Ain’t nothing to brag of, ma’am—but they’re a rough bunch out here. A lot o’ bad ones have come up from over the line. Well, now about this here brother who ain’t showed up…”
He was stumped, for if the brother had not kept his engagement, it was probably because six feet of ground held him occupied. Slivers knew the Bear Falls country like his own ranch, and the only Lawrence west of Jornado was a gray-headed old crook who operated a trading agency on and off the Navajo reservation territory.
“Would a picture help?” asked Miss Lawrence. Slivers turned and brightened perceptibly.
“It sure would, ma’am! Good—this is something like!”
“I just got this out of my trunk this afternoon,” she said.
He looked at the photograph, expecting to behold a total stranger; and he was not disappointed. He had never before laid eyes on the alert, reckless-looking young devil who looked up at him.
“Well,” he suggested, “s’pose you let me tote this around some to-night. I’ll take right good care of it, you bet. Might be I’d run into somebody who’d know of your brother by sight, but hadn’t learned the name.”
“It’s good of you to take so much trouble, Mr.…”
“Nope, just plain Slivers,” said Mr. Lawrence, and his bronzed features were good to look upon when he smiled. “I may be a desperate character, but nothing makes me more so than to be called ‘Mister.’ So, if you don’t mind…”
“All right, Slivers—and thank you,” she said, smiling, and Mr. Lawrence wondered that he had ever thought her homely and sad eyed.
II
Bear Falls had plenty of gossip that night, for Pete the Deputy had come in with a bullet scrape across his head and a dead companion across another saddle. Slivers Lawrence heard about it soon enough—the pair of them had nearly trapped Lefty Sage, and Deputy Pete did not yet know how the trap had failed. The badman and road agent had slipped away again, leaving a new victim in his wake.
“And,” wailed Pete over the bar of the Blue Front, to a circle of sympathizers, “That gosh-dinged sheriff don’t give a durn, I tell you! He says we hadn’t ought to have tried to plug anybody with rifles—that we deserved all we got! Them was his very words, by gosh!”
“If I was you,” said somebody, “I wouldn’t go to disputing with old Simpson none whatever, feller. If you laid out and tried to plug a gent as he came by, and he got you instead, I reckon my money lays on him every time!”
Overhearing this, Slivers drifted down the street to the sheriff’s house. He had known Jim Simpson for ten years, a man of wide acquaintance and a square-shooter, an old-timer in the hills. If anybody knew of this Ed Lawrence, Simpson would do so.
The sheriff welcomed him cordially, took him into the parlor, and they lighted up together after a suitable libation.
“This here ain’t no official call,” explained Mr. Lawrence. “I s’pose you’re all het up over what happened to Pete?”
“Nope,” said grizzled old Simpson, grinning. “Served him right. I don’t go to lay under cover and put a bullet into no man. What’s on your mind? You look durned troubled.”
“I am,” said Slivers. “Right now, you’re Jim Simpson and not a sheriff, savvy? If that goes with you, I’ll let loose what’s eating me. Otherwise, we’ll stick to politics.”
“Durn politics,” said Simpson promptly. “Shoot! How you like these here new teeth, huh?”
He proudly displayed his handsome new store teeth, and Mr. Lawrence duly admired them. The original set had recently been ruined in the Apache Gulch fracas—but that enters not into this relation. The history of Jim Simpson’s life would cover most of the historic battles of the old Southwest.
Mr. Lawrence told about the young lady, the missing brother, and then hauled out the photograph. Sheriff Simpson regarded it, stroked his rainbow mustache, and shook his head.
“Nope,” he said with decision. “You’re the only Lawrence I ever heard of around here, old-timer; and this ain’t you by a good deal. Never laid eyes on this here jasper, and it’s sure he ain’t wanted. I been running over the wanted notices, hopin’ to corral some o’ these fellers comin’ through in the Yeller Gulch strike rush. I’m right certain. Sorry I can’t help you none. Reckon you ain’t seen my Lefty Sage picture?”
“Picture?” asked Slivers, pocketing his photograph. “Of Lefty Sage? Didn’t know you had one, Jim. Nor anybody else.”
“Got it recent,” said the sheriff, “and had some copies made. Remember when he held up the Socorro stage and drilled a feller? They was a woman aboard with one of them cameras, and she snapped him without him knowing it, when his handkerchief slipped off his mug for a minute. They all said he was bearded, but nobody could describe him any two alike, and it was sure an accident she got his picture. Hold on a second—I got a copy of it upstairs.”
Slivers Lawrence knew about Lefty Sage, of course—everyone in the Southwest did. He had started in the gunman business on the other side of the Rio Grande; he always shot with his left hand, when he was not shooting with both hands, and he left his trade mark on every Mexican he sent into eternity—a small sprig of sagebrush left on the corpse.
Then Lefty, as he was known, came up north and went to work for a sheep outfit beyond Socorro. He might have gone straight, but his reputation followed him, and a Mexican went after him; the gentleman was full of marihuana and was out for blood, and Lefty had to shoot him four times before stopping him. Nobody would have objected to this, but a white herder went after Lefty soon afterward, and passed out by the same route.
Lefty started to leave the Socorro neighborhood, but when he was buying supplies, a trader wanted to square accounts for the dead herder—and there was one trader the less. This brought the law into it, and the next heard from Lefty Sage, he was holding up stages with some regularity and with several killings to his credit. To a certain extent he had been a victim of circumstances, but he had himself pushed the circumstances farther, and now he was being very actively sought in various quarters, for large rewards.
Sheriff Simpson returned, handed Mr. Lawrence a picture and resumed his pipe.
“This here will help us a lot—only Pete got too durned anxious to-day, when he seen the gent,” he observed. “Nobody ever give us a good clear description of this here hombre before, but now we got something to go on, better’n a weejee board and messages from the spirit world could give. Come a couple days, I’ll have more copies o’ this picture, and then we start out systematic to round up the hills. We’ll sure get him—unless the greasers get him first.”
“Mexicans?” said Slivers, liftin
g his bushy eyebrows. This interested him. “Why them?”
Simpson blew a cloud of smoke. “This here feud that has trailed Lefty from down below, savvy? I done heard a gang o’ killers had come up north to lift his scalp. Well, no differ to me! If he kills off the greasers, I ain’t mourning none; and if they knife him, Sanburne County will be saved the expense of chasin’ him.”
“Huh!” said Mr. Lawrence, very thoughtfully. “If you was riding down the road and come into the middle of a fight betwixt Lefty Sage and a gang o’ greasers, which side would you take?”
“Ask me something easy,” and Mr. Simpson guffawed. “Me, I’d prob’ly fly straight to heaven or somewheres. I hear you sort of got a greaser war on your own hands, Slivers—huh?”
“I ain’t right certain,” confessed Mr. Lawrence. “I know danged well that I don’t leave town without toting a rifle, that’s sure.”
It was late when Mr. Lawrence came back to the hotel, to be informed that Miss Lawrence had gone to bed, so far as was known. He did not pursue his inquiries, but settled down in a chair, took out a pencil and made some light strokes on the photograph of her brother. Then he erased the strokes, rolled a cigarette, and pocketed the picture with a frown.
“Dang it” he observed to himself, having confirmed his worst fears. “The beard makes a heap o’ difference, for a fact—dad blame it! This sure is a fine can o’ sardines I’ve opened! If she finds out about it, what’s she going to do, huh? My gosh, if it ain’t up to me hard!”
Mr. Lawrence was not easily taken aback, but this time he was positively appalled. There was no doubt whatever that Lefty Sage was merely Ed Lawrence with a beard.
And what was he to do about it? If he told everything to the sister, he was going to cause a lot of woe, no doubt about it. He had taken upon himself the position of protector, and now he was paying for it. His first thought was to get out his buckboard, load his trunk and shove for the high places; but Slivers Lawrence was hardly the sort to run from trouble.
Now he understood things plainly—things the sheriff certainly did not know. Lefty had been coming to town to meet his sister when the deputies sighted him and his horse, of which they had a description. Probably he had sent for her when he was working as a herder and hoping to live down his record below the border. And now Lefty would certainly do his best to get into touch with her—badman as he was, he would not leave his sister in Bear Falls without a word.
Adventure Tales, Volume 6 Page 18