In that mental clarity that comes in moments of great stress, The Kid found himself aware of many things—a wet ring on the bar where his glass had stood, the half-empty bottle near Schweitzer, the two empty tables in the back of the room. He saw the sickly pallor on the bartender’s flabby face and the yellow hairs on the backs of Schweitzer’s hands.
“You stick your nose into trouble.” Schweitzer lifted the bottle with his left hand to pour a drink. Then his face suddenly twisted with blind, bitter fury, and he jerked the bottle up to throw it at The Kid.
Afterward, The Kid could never remember any impulse or feeling. He simply drew and fired without any thought or plan, and he fired at the bottle.
It exploded in a shower of glass and drenched Schweitzer with whisky. He sprang back, amazed, and when he looked up at The Kid he was cold sober.
Slowly, his eyes wide and his face pale, Schweitzer lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I ain’t drawin’,” he said, astonishment making his voice thick. “I ain’t makin’ a move.”
“See that yuh don’t!” The Sandy Kid said flatly. He glared at the bartender, then backed through the swinging doors, and holstered his gun. With a wary eye on the saloon, he crossed to his horse, mounted, and rode out of town.
He moved in a sort of daze. He was no gun fighter and had never fancied himself as such. He was only a drifting cowhand who dreamed of some day owning his own spread. He had never found any occasion for split-second drawing, although he had practised, of course.
He had been wearing a six-gun for years, and he practised throwing it hour after hour, but more to ease the monotony of long nights on night guard than from any desire for skill. It had been something to do, like riffling cards, playing solitaire, or juggling stones.
Like all Texas men of his time he had done his share of fighting and he had done a lot of shooting. He knew he was a good shot and that he nearly always got what he went after, but shooting as quickly and accurately as he had done in the saloon had never been considered.
Out of town, he did not ride away. When Dutch Schweitzer returned he would tell Jasper Wald what had happened. There would be trouble then, The Kid knew, and the least he could expect would be to be fired. Yet there was something he would do before he left town. Riding around the town in the juniper clad hills, he dismounted and seated himself for a long wait.
He saw Dutch ride out a short time later. He saw the streets become less peopled, and he saw the sun go down. When it was dark, he moved down to the Wells Fargo office. When Dutch left he had been driving a buckboard, and that meant something to The Kid.
Using his knife, he cut away the putty around a pane of glass, then reached through and unfastened the window. Raising it, he crawled in.
For an instant he stood still, listening. There was no sound, so he struck a match, and shielding it in his hands, looked around for the box. He identified it quickly enough by the address. It was not large but was strongly built. With a hammer he found lying on a shelf, he pried up one of the top boards. He struck another match and peered into the box. Inside, wrapped in sacking, was a lot of the same ore he had found near the skeleton of Jim Kurland!
He blew out the match, then pushed the board back in place, hitting it a couple of light taps with the hammer. Then he went out, closed the window, and replaced the pane of glass, using some slivers of wood to hold the pane in place.
Jasper Wald then, had killed Jim Kurland and found the claim. Or perhaps he had found the claim first. The ore was extremely rich, and he was shipping it, a very little at a time, to El Paso where his brother was probably having it milled.
A slow process, certainly, but it was high-grade ore, and no doubt Wald had made plans to file on the claim when there would be no danger of Kurland’s disappearance being linked with the proceedings. Everyone from the Forks to the Stone Tree Desert and Agua Dulce Canyon knew Kurland was the only mining man around, and also that he regularly penetrated the badlands of the Stone Tree.
The Sandy Kid took to the trail and put the roan to a fast trot. He was foolish, he told himself, to be mixing into something that was no concern of his. It would have been wiser to forget what he had seen after he came out of that crack in the mountain. Even now, he reflected, it was not too late to travel to some far off place like the Blue Mountains or maybe the Grand Canyon country of Arizona, which he had never seen but had heard cowhands lying about.
Little as he knew about gold, he could tell that the ore he had seen was fabulously rich, for the rock had been lined and threaded with it, and being so heavy, it had to be rich ore. Such a boxful as he had seen in the express office might be worth two or three thousand dollars.
Now that he thought about it, he had an idea where that claim was located. Not more than a half mile from where he had jumped into the crack to escape the steer, the plateau broke sharply off in a sheer cliff, some fifty or sixty feet high, that overhung the waterless, treeless waste of Stone Tree Desert and could even open upon the desert itself. That rupture, obviously the result of volcanic disturbance, could have exposed the vein from which the ore had come.
Pure speculation, of course, but The Sandy Kid had an idea he was nosing along the right trail. Also, he was aware that his interest did not arise from chivalry. He was not going into this to help a lady in distress. Trouble with Jasper Wald and his two hardbitten henchmen was not lightly to be invited, and if he did go into it knowing what he was facing, it was only partly because of the way Betty Kurland had looked at him that he was following through.
It was a fool thing, he told himself. He had no particular urge to get money. Much as he’d like a ranch, he didn’t want to have his head shot off getting it. He admitted to himself that if it had not been for Betty, he would never have gone all the way into this fight.
“The devil with it!” he said viciously. “I’ll go back to the Bar W an’ roll my soogan an’ hit the trail!”
But when he came to the last forks, he kept on toward the mountains. He circled when he hit the willows and let the pony take its own gait. He was just edging out toward the cliff edge where he could see over into the Stone Tree when a rifle bullet hit the fork of his saddle with a wicked thwack, and then the bullet whined off ahead of them. It was a wonder it hadn’t glanced back into his stomach or hit the pony’s head.
The echo of the report drifted over him as he hit the ground running, and he grabbed the bridle and swung the bay pony back into the brush. Then he slid his Winchester .44 out of the saddle scabbard and Injun-crawled toward the cliff edge.
That shot meant that somebody wasn’t fooling, so The Kid wasn’t planning on fun himself. He was some shakes with a Winchester, and when he got to cover where he could see out, he looked around, trying to locate the spot the varmint had shot from. There was nobody in sight.
The Sandy Kid was not a trusting soul. His past dealings with Comanches had not been calculated to inspire any confidence in the serene and untrammeled appearance of woods or mountains. So, after a long look, he left the bay pony tethered to a bush and crawled to the very lip of the cliff. When he glanced over, he could see something that looked like a pile of waste and rock taken from a mine tunnel, but he wasn’t looking for that. All in good time he could have an interest in the gold.
Then, in the rocks further along the rim of the cliff, he detected a slight movement. He looked again, widening and then squinting his eyes. It looked like a boot heel. Not much of a mark at that distance, and not much damage could be done if he hit it.
“We’ll scare the daylights out of yuh, anyway!” he said, and lifting the Winchester, he nestled his cheek affectionately against the stock and squeezed off a shot.
Dust obscured the spot for a moment, but no dust could blot out the startled yell he heard. Somebody lunged into view then, and the Sandy Kid’s jaw dropped. It was Betty Kurland! She was wearing a man’s trousers and a man’s shirt, and limping with one boot heel gone, but that hair could belong to nobody else!
He got up,
waving his arms, and ran out to meet her. She turned on him, and her own rifle was coming hip high when she got a better look and recognized him. She came on a couple of steps, then stopped, her eyes flashing with indignation.
‘‘I thought you were my friend!” she flared at him. “Then you shoot at me!”
“You shot at me!” he declared. “How was I to know?”
“That’s different!”
Such feminine logic was so amazing that he gulped and swallowed. “Yuh shouldn’t have come out here,” he protested. “It isn’t safe!”
“I wanted to find my father,” she said. “Where is he?”
He led her to the lip of the cliff, and they found a way down. The Kid wanted a look at that desert, first. They came around in full sight of the mine tunnel and were just in time to see a man climbing out of a hole.
“I’ll go get what’s left of Kurland,” they heard the man say. “They’ll never find him here!”
The Sandy Kid was cursing softly, for he had been so preoccupied with the girl that he had walked around, unthinking, and now found himself looking into a gun held by Jasper Wald. The rancher had seen him, even if Jack Swarr, climbing from the freshly dug grave had not.
“Well, now!” Wald said. “If this ain’t nice! You and that girl walkin’ right up on us!”
“Don’t you try nothin’,” The Kid said. “This girl is known to be here. If she doesn’t show up you’ll have the law around.”
Wald chuckled. “No, we won’t. Not for long, anyway. I’ll just tell them this Kurland girl showed up to meet you, and you two took off to get married, over to Lordsburg, or somewheres. They’ll figger yuh eloped, and never even think of lookin’ for yuh!”
Swarr grinned. “Hey, that’s a good idea, boss! An’ we can pile ’em in the same hole with her pa!”
“If I were you,” The Sandy Kid said, “I’d guess again. I just come from Argo Springs. I know all about that gold ore you’ve been shippin’ to El Paso, and I ain’t the only one.”
Jasper Wald hesitated. His idea for getting rid of the two had been a sudden inspiration, and a good one, but the thought that The Kid might have mentioned the gold to someone in Argo Springs disturbed him. It would mean he would have to move slowly, or worse, that he was already suspected.
Suddenly there was a clatter of stones, and they looked up. Only Wald, who held the gun on the Kid did not shift his eyes. The newcomer was Dutch Schweitzer.
“Watch that hombre, boss!” the German said hoarsely. “He’s gun slick!”
“Him?” Swarr was incredulous. “That kid?”
“How old was Bill Bonney?” Dutch asked sarcastically. “He flashed a gun on me today so fast I never even saw his hand move!”
Angered and worried, Jasper Wald stared at the Kid. Quickly, Swarr explained.
“Aw, boss,” Dutch said, “he’s lyin’. I nosed around town after he left. After he left me, I mean. He never talked to nobody.”
“How did I find out about the gold in that box yuh brought in? Addressed to Henry Wald, in El Paso?” The Kid asked him.
“He must have seen the box,” Dutch protested.
The Sandy Kid’s mind was running desperately ahead, trying to find a way out. “Also,” he added, “I checked on this claim. You never filed on it, so I did.”
“What?” Wald’s shout was a bellow of fury. His face went dark with blood. “You filed on this claim? Why, you—” Rage drove all caution from his mind. “I’ll shoot yuh, blast yuh, and let yuh die right out in the sun! You—”
“Boss!” Swarr shouted. “Hold it! Mebbe he’s lyin’! Mebbe he didn’t file! Anyway,” he added craftily, “why kill him until he signs the claim over to us?”
Wald’s rage died. He glanced at Swarr. “You’re right,” he said. “We can get possession that way.”
The Sandy Kid chuckled. “You’ll have no cinch gettin’ me to sign anything.”
“It’ll be easy,” Wald said sharply, “we’ll just start by tyin’ up that girl and takin’ her boots off. By the time she gets a little fire on her feet, yuh’ll sign!”
Dutch Schweitzer glanced at his chief, then he helped Jack Swarr tie the girl. Swarr knelt and pulled off her boots. He drew deeply on his cigarette, and thrust it toward her foot.
Dutch stared at them, his eyes suddenly hardening. “None of that!” he said. “I thought yuh were bluffin’! Cut it out!”
“Bluffin’?” Swarr looked up. “I’ll show yuh if I’m bluffin’!” He jammed the cigarette forward, and Betty screamed.
Dutch Schweitzer’s face went pale, and with an oath, he grabbed for a gun. At the same time Jasper Wald swung his gun toward the German. That was all the break the Sandy Kid needed. His right hand streaked for his gun-butt, and he was shooting with the first roar from Wald’s gun.
The Kid’s first shot took Jack Swarr in the stomach as the big man lunged upward, clawing for his pistol. Dutch had a gun out and was firing. The Kid saw his body jerk with the impact of Wald’s bullet, and he swung his own gun. Wald faced him at the same instant.
For one unbelieving instant, The Sandy Kid looked over the stabbing flame of his own Colt into the flaring muzzle of Wald’s six-shooter. He triggered his gun fast at almost point blank range.
He swayed on his feet, his legs spread wide, and saw Jasper Wald’s cruel face turn white before his eyes. The rancher’s knees sagged, and he went to the ground, glaring bitterly at The Sandy Kid. He tried then, to lift his gun, but the Kid sprang foward and knocked it from his grasp. Wald slumped over on the sand, his face contorted.
Swarr, The Kid saw at a glance, was dead. Yet it had not been only his bullet, for the German must have got in at least one shot. Swarr’s face and head were bloody.
Schweitzer lay on his back, his face upturned to the sun. The Sandy Kid knelt beside him, but a glance told him there was nothing he or anyone could do.
Dutch stared at him. “Never was no hand to abuse women,” he said, “never—no hand.”
The Sandy Kid turned to Betty Kurland who stood, staring down at Dutch. “He was a strange man,” she said.
“Let’s get out of here,” The Kid said. Taking her by the hand, he led her toward the path down which Schweitzer had come.
On the cliff top, they stood for a moment together. Betty’s face was white now, and her eyes seemed unusually large and dark. He noticed then that she hadn’t limped.
“Was yore foot burned badly?” he asked. “I didn’t think to help yuh.”
“It wasn’t burned at all!” she told him. “I jerked my foot back as he thrust the cigarette at it.”
“But you screamed?” he protested.
“Yes, I know,” she said, looking at him. “You had to have your chance to draw, and they hadn’t taken away your guns. And I knew about Dutch Schweitzer.”
“Knew about him? What?”
“The Apaches killed his wife. They burned her. I thought, maybe … that was why he drank so much, I guess.”
When they were on the trail toward the Forks, he looked at her, then glanced quickly away. “Well, yuh’ve got yore claim,” he said. “All yuh’ve got to do is stake it out and file on it. I never did. Yuh found yore pa, too. Looks like yuh’re all set. I reckon I’ll hug the rawhide and head out of the country. A loose horse is always huntin’ new pastures!”
“I’ll need a good man to ramrod that mine for me!” she protested. “Wouldn’t you do that? I promised you half, too!”
“Ma’am”—The Sandy Kid was growing red around the gills and desperate, for she was sure enough a pretty girl—“I reckon I never was made to stay no place. I’m packin’ my duffle and takin’ the trail out of here. If anybody comes around askin’ for the Sandy Kid, you tell ’em he lit a schuck and went to Texas!”
He turned his horse at the forks of the road and headed for the Bar W. His own horse was there, and since Wald wouldn’t be needing this bay pony, he might need him out West there, Arizona way. He sure did aim to see that Grand Canyon down which flowed
the Colorado. A mile deep, they said. Of course, that was a durned lie, but she might be pretty deep, at that.
Once, he glanced back over his shoulder. The girl was only a dim figure on the skyline.
“First thing we know,” he said to the bay pony, “she’d have me a settin’ in church a wearin’ a fried shirt. I’d shore be halter broke.”
The bay pony switched his tail and picked up its feet in an Injun trot, and the Sandy Kid broke into a song, a gritty baritone that made the bay lay back its ears.
Oh, there was a young cowhand who used to go riding,
There was a young cowhand named Johnny Go-day!
He rode a black pony an’ never was lonely,
For a girl never said to him, “Johnny, go ’way!”
Mistakes Can Kill You Page 24